Blasphemy
by SheWritesThings
Summary: For Sam and Steve, finding Bucky was the easy part. But now two distinct personalities reside within him: Bucky Barnes and the Winter Soldier. Sam decides to call in an old friend: Sgt. Fox, a young war veteran and amputee, having suffered PTSD herself. Dodging SHIELD and Hydra agents alike, the trio struggles to bring Bucky back and eliminate the Soldier before time runs out.
1. Chapter 1

**AN:** First chapter! You meet the OC, Sam, and Steve in this one. In the next, we'll meet Bucky/the Winter Soldier. It's already written, so review to let me know you're reading and I'll post it.

Also, the fics I've read rarely feature Sam, which is sad because I like him. He'll be a big part in this. A lot of fics also paint Bucky as either super violent, super angry, or whatever. I'm planning on doing this a little differently, treating him as a person with severe PTSD and keeping it realistic. Promise it'll be fun! I know this has been done, with female helping Bucky, but it'll be different from that as well. No SHIELD assigning her to the role, no Bucky locked up in a room—it'll be different. Promise. Just look at the OC! Ever read about an amputee war vet before? ;)

As for pairings, nothing has been decided yet. Let me know what you think, okay? I definitely want friendship pairs, but maybe a little romance, no?

**Chapter 1**

Though it had only been a couple of years past, combat medic Sergeant Moriah Fox felt like her time in the field had been lifetimes ago. Sometimes she found that she missed it, but most of the time she was content where she was; a grad student, attending UCLA and living in the bustling city of angels – Los Angeles. Folded into her couch with a textbook on unfolding memory in her lap, it was times like these when she would remember her old life, so wildly different from the calm in which she currently lived. Long gone was the desert heat, the rattling gunfire; long gone were the days of obeying barked orders, of seeing badly wounded men and being the first in a long line of people to help save their lives; gone was the sense of tension and urgency in which she had constantly lived in Afghanistan.

Now, her days were filled with warm sunlight instead of scorching heat; with textbooks on her lap instead of weapons; her hands were now busy scribbling research notes, rather than sticky with a man's blood. She would be lying if she said she ever really _forgot_; thoughts of war were always there, day in and day out, hovering in her mind, and the burn scars on her body served as a constant reminder, but sometimes, _sometimes_, it was easy to push those thoughts away and pretend to be a normal girl.

But that was the problem with pretend, wasn't it? Reality was always there.

She blew out a breath, puffing out her cheeks and leafing through her textbook; it was summer so class wasn't in session, but after having suffered from posttraumatic amnesia herself, she found the subject fascinating and liked to read up on it when she had spare time. She was reading a section on anterograde amnesia that had her caught up and engrossed. The sound of the oven beeping drew her out of the book, which was lucky; occasionally, she would be so deeply involved in her book that she wouldn't notice, leaving things to burn. She dog-eared the page and stood with a little effort, padding to the kitchen to pull the brownies out. She'd taken up baking once she'd gotten out of the army and found that she was good at it. She felt normal.

As she was setting the baking tray on the counter, she heard her cellphone ringing—a boring, old-phone style ring tone. She really should change it. The sound was grating on her nerves. She quickly removed the padded glove from her hand and hurried to grab her phone off the couch's arm. Glancing at the caller ID, a wide smile split her lips.

"_Sam_," she said warmly, plopping down on the couch.

"Hi, Mo," he said. "How are you, girl?"

"Better now that I'm talking to you," she said, and she heard him laugh on the other end of the line. "What's up?"

"You busy?"

"Just making brownies."

"No, I mean in general. School? Work?"

"Um, not really," she said. "Class is over for the summer. And no work, really. The GI bill's taking care of me all right. Hey—weren't you on the news a couple months ago? I thought I saw you."

"Yeah," he said slowly.

"What was that about? You okay?"

"I'm fine," he said, warmth in his voice.

"So you're the Falcon now, huh?"

"Shut up," he laughed. "Anyway, can I ask a favor? I could use your help." She sauntered over to the brownies and cut one out. She swore softly as it burned her fingertips. "You okay?"

"Yeah, yeah," she said quickly. "Burned myself. Anyway, what's up?"

"I got this friend," Sam began slowly. "Went through a hell of a rough time, you know? It's bad." Moriah's brow creased and she frowned.

"PTSD?"

"For starters."

"Oh," she said sympathetically.

"Yeah," Sam said. "Anyway, he won't let me help him. And I was hoping I could count on you."

"I don't know if you can afford me, Sam," she scoffed, taking a bite of brownie and leaning against the countertop. "Of course you can count on me. But why not ask someone closer to you? Aren't you in New York?" There was a hesitation, and Mo wondered briefly if Sam had heard her. "Sam?"

"I trust you, Mo. It's—it's important. And you're not an official shrink or anything. Titles will probably make him uncomfortable."

"What's happened to him?"

"Wouldn't know where to begin. Just been through hell, basically. Could use some help acclimating, adjusting. You don't have to do it, Mo."

"No, of course I'll do it. I'm bored here anyway. I could use some action in my life. Besides, it's not every day a celebrity calls you asking for your help." She smirked.

"More of a hero than celebrity, really," Sam said, and she tilted her head back and laughed a genuine laugh. "How soon can you come?"

"As soon as you need me."

"Great!" Sam's voice was bright. "I just bought your plane ticket. You can be ready by seven tonight, right?"

Her heart stuttered. "It's noon!"

"Seven hours is more than enough time," he said, and she could hear the smile in his voice. "Don't you worry about a thing. Just bring your clothes. I'll pick you up at the airport when you land, alright?"

"Christ, you don't mess around, do you?"

"It's urgent," Sam offered.

"You just miss me," she sighed. Her heart was racing with nerves, with excitement. New York! She couldn't wait to be back. To be honest, her day to day routine had grown tiresome, without school or her usual line of work, leading group therapy sessions for soldiers returning home.

"You know you're a little excited," Sam said, and she smiled. "You love this spontaneous stuff."

"I do," she said.

"Go get ready," Sam ordered. "I'll see you soon. Thanks for doing this, Mo." And he hung up.

* * *

Sam stood with his hands in his pockets, scanning the sea of the faces for Mo. He was ecstatic that she'd agreed to come; he knew that she would be invaluable given his current _predicament_. He did feel a little bad. He should have given her more information, but he told himself that she hadn't asked. If it was important to her, she would have asked, right? He puffed out his cheeks nervously. Time would tell, but he needed her now. He couldn't turn to anyone from SHIELD; Steve was adamant about that. In fact, he knew Steve would probably be angry about Mo, too, but Sam wasn't sure what else to do; they needed help, and Steve hadn't left him with many options. And when it came down to it, he trusted Moriah, the young wounded soldier.

He'd met her around a year ago; she'd been leading a therapy group, just as he had. She'd been able to relate to the other soldiers, having experienced PTSD herself, much as he had. She'd gotten through it, just as Sam had, and the both of them understood that PTSD wasn't something you could get through alone. And, when she had slipped up slightly, gotten into a bad place last year, he had helped her through it, just as she had helped him when his own bad memories and feelings of guilt had been triggered.

Since SHIELD was out of the question, and so was anyone who was a real, qualified doctor, Sam had thought of Moriah. She was a good friend. She could be trusted. They'd kept in contact; he knew she was a grad student at UCLA, studying psychology. He knew she had suffered posttraumatic memory loss. He knew that she was endlessly kind and understanding, a rock when things got chaotic, tough when she needed to be. He'd always called her a social chameleon; never the same person around two different groups of people. She was always exactly what she needed to be, and somehow she always knew exactly what she needed to be without being told.

He was uncertain as to how she would react when he got her back home. Mo was known for being calm. Given her job as a combat medic, that came naturally to her, so he wasn't too worried. She knew how to take a situation and roll with it. She was pliant. He had all the faith in the world in her.

Finally, he spotted her. She was easy to identify, stood out form the crowd. Though she wore no uniform, and she'd been three years out of the army, she still walked like a soldier. Head high, shoulders straight; she had those watchful eyes, too. All signs that others might overlook, but signs another soldier would recognize. Of course, the scars gave her away, too.

She wore a scarf, usually to cover the burns on the right side of her neck. Through she wore a burgundy leather jacket, he knew those scars covered some of her arm and the right side of her chest, licking beneath her jaw as well. Her helmet had saved a lot of her face, but it was marred, however, by a scar that sliced through her right eyebrow, down to the top of her cheekbone.

Mo was lucky to be alive.

He waved her down and she smiled, her earthy green eyes lighting up. If he hadn't already known, he wouldn't have ever guessed that the right one was fake. She raised her arm and waved brightly at him and he came to meet her. She wrapped her arms around him and he lifted her off the floor a little, squeezing her tightly.

"Geeze, muscles," she said as he sat her back down. She squeezed his bicep playfully. "You really let yourself go, huh?"

He laughed, noting that she felt different in his arms. Softer. "Good to see you, too." And it really was good to see her. The thing about Mo was that she had a certain warmth to her, and he wasn't the only one who thought so; others she had helped had mentioned it as well. But Mo radiated warmth and welcome; it was impossible to feel uncomfortable around the wounded soldier. Given the hand she had been dealt, she would have had every right to give up and turn bitter. Instead, she grew more optimistic, passionate about helping others who had been hurt.

He smiled. "Let's get your things."

"So, where am I staying, exactly? How long will I even be here for?"

"You can stay with us," he said, lifting two of her large bags. She looked sheepish.

"I wasn't sure how long I'd be staying," she said sheepishly. "But it seemed like it might take a while."

"It will," he said. "Anyway, you'll stay with us as long as you want. I'm living with two other guys, but don't worry, they won't bother you. Actually, they're the ones you'll be helping, so it'll be convenient."

She raised her scarred eyebrow at him.

"Well, one needs your help more than the other, but, you know. They won't give you any trouble, promise."

"I think I can take them," she said, smirking, which drew a full laugh from Sam. The thought was absurd.

* * *

Steve paced around anxiously, his hands clasped together behind his back. Sam would be back soon, any minute now, he was sure. He wasn't sure who the person was Sam had elected to help them, but he trusted that his friend had made the right call. He prayed that he had. He couldn't risk it.

When the door opened he spun around. Sam stepped in, a smile on his face; he was talking animatedly to someone behind him. There was a feminine laugh and Sam stepped aside, revealing a girl—a woman. She had dark skin, a caramel color a few shades lighter than Sam's, and a mane of honey brown curls. She blinked her green eyes up to look at Steve; their eyes met and she gasped.

"I—oh, my _God_," he heard her breathe as he stepped forward. She looked accusingly at Sam, her eyes narrowed furiously. "_You—you didn't tell me—_"

"Steve!" Sam interrupted brightly. "Steve, this is my good friend and ex-combat medic, Sergeant Moriah Fox. Mo, this is Captain Steve Rogers."

"You don't say," the girl, Sergeant Moriah Fox, said. Steve saluted her and she returned the gesture, shock etched into her features.

"Sergeant Fox," Steve said, inclining his head. She shook her head, the curls bouncing.

"Ex sergeant," she insisted. "Call me Mo. Or Fox, if you want."

Fox felt right; Mo was too familiar.

"It's a pleasure, ma'am," Steve said.

"Same," she replied, looking around the apartment. "I just—oh my god, Sam, your roommate is _Captain America?_ Who's the other guy? _Thor?_"

"Definitely not," Sam said uneasily. "We'll get to that later. Why don't we get you settled in?"

"Right," Fox said. "I'm fine on the couch or whatever."

"Don't insult me," Sam said, nudging her. "Steve and I are sharing a room. You've got your own."

"And the other guy?"

"Later, like I said."

* * *

"So tell me about yourself," Steve said, seated across from Mo. The mystery man had apparently opted out of joining them. She couldn't blame him; it was past three in the morning. Mo had settled into her room with her clothes and her textbooks, and now they were all in the kitchen seated around the table, drinking coffee. At 3am.

"I, uh…" she trailed off. It was easier to speak if she wasn't looking at him. _Captain America._ She couldn't believe that there was anything wrong with him – surely he couldn't need her help. God, was he good-looking. She didn't know what to say. She didn't want to embarrass herself. And her _face_. She bit her lower lip. He must have noticed the scars. He must have questions. She looked at Sam, who raised his eyebrows at her.

"He's cute, huh?" he said, winking. She glared at him. "Don't be star struck."

"Um," she tried again, looking back at Steve. She noticed his eyes trailing over the scar on her face in the way she was used to people doing; eyes skirting the top to the bottom, then flitting away guiltily. She sighed. "Let's start with the elephant in the room, yeah?" she said, meeting Steve's eyes. "The scars. I saw you looking." He lowered his eyes.

"I—"

"It's okay," she cut him off with a gentle smile, then gave Sam a meaningful look. "It doesn't bother me like it used to. I'm surprised Sam didn't tell you."

Sam raised his hands. "Not my story."

"You don't have to tell it," Steve said kindly.

"It's fine," Mo said. She raked a hand through her thick curls "I joined the army at seventeen, right out of high school. Deployed at twenty. I was supposed to be gone for nine months in Afghanistan, combat medic, like Sam said. I was seven months into my tour when our vehicle hit an IED. Blew it apart. Blew _me_ apart." She tugged down the neckline of her top, revealing the burns on her shoulder. She tilted her head back, showing the ones on her jaw as well. "I got burned," she said, gesturing to the right side of her body. "Mostly on this side." She touched the scar on her face. "Shrapnel caught me here, laid me open." Then she stood and balanced her weight on her left leg. "My leg got caught up in the wreckage somehow, and was severed." She smiled softly, rolling up the leg of her jeans, revealing the prosthetic. Steve steepled his fingers in front of his face.

"I'm okay, though," she said with a shrug. "I'm alive. I couldn't remember anything about the accident for a while, but they helped me recover the memories." She looked darkly at her hands for a moment before looking back up at Steve. His face was solemn, thoughtful. "But I'm fine, really," she said. "I'm not just saying that. I'm happier than I've ever been, and if I think even for a second that you're pitying me…" she trailed off, glancing at his massive arms. "Well, there's not much I can do. But I'll tell Sam."

"Don't pity her, man," Sam said, shaking his head. Steve smiled softly. "And don't stare, either."

"I am sorry," Steve said. "War is a terrible thing. You didn't deserve that."

"Yeah," she wrinkled her nose. "I didn't. But I've accepted it. I've moved on." The room was quiet for a few minutes before she laughed. Sam was looking at her with something like pride in his eyes. "Geeze. Heavy. So _anyway,_ now that that's out of the way…"

Steve seemed to appreciate her light attitude. He smiled softly. "How do you know Sam?"

Mo yawned. Even jetlagged, she was tired; it would be midnight in LA now. "PTSD group sessions. We were both group leaders. We met here, in New York, actually. He helped me out a lot when I hit a dark time. That's the thing with PTSD. You just cope, but you're not cured. Sometimes I still get bad memories resurfacing, you know? You have bad days. You're never completely… _better._"

"Ain't that the truth," Sam said with a wry smile, then nudged Mo. "Mo here's my best girl."

She rolled her eyes at him. "Damn straight."

Steve quirked his eyebrows. "You two…?"

"No," Sam laughed. "No, not like that. She's special though." Mo snorted. "I definitely think she can help us. She's studying and researching memory, too."

"Well, because I lost mine for a bit. Not everything, but, you know." She shrugged. Sam and Steve exchanged a significant look, but she caught it and watched them suspiciously.

"You're not a doctor?" Steve asked her.

"Medic?" She replied, quirking her brows.

"No, I mean psychologist."

"Oh. No. Just, like, a group leader for a bit through the army and whatnot. And a student, mostly."

Steve looked at Sam, and Mo wasn't sure if she liked the expression. "Uh." She said.

"She's _good_," Sam insisted. "Alright? She's got this."

"I got this," she reassured with a bob of her head, though she wasn't sure what _this_ was.

Steve and Sam did that thing again, and Mo decided it was annoying. They had that whole silent communication thing down. Sam stood first, then Steve. Mo looked between them and followed suit, puzzled.

"Mo," Sam said, looking at her with a kind smile. "Why don't you head on up to bed? I just need to talk to Steve for a bit."

"So, that's it?" Sam nodded. "_Right_. Okay then. Goodnight, I guess?"

"Night," Sam said. "I'll wake you in the morning. We'll get things started then."

"Kay." She looked at Steve and inclined her head. He nodded. "Goodnight, Captain Rogers." Her voice faltered a little. She was definitely still star struck by him. Her heart fluttered. Sam rolled his eyes at her.

"Goodnight, Sergeant Fox." She shot him a look, but decided reprimanding Captain America—_Captain America. She was sharing an apartment with Captain America.—_probably wasn't the best of ideas. She turned on her heel instead, heading up to her borrowed bedroom, wondering who their friend could be. Certainly someone of prestige, right? Her heart fluttered at the thought. Tony Stark, perhaps? A secret agent? She felt her palms start to sweat as she locked her door, just in case—she didn't know this other man, after all. But she was tired after an eventful day, and she fell asleep, for once not dreaming of war, but dreaming of the possibilities instead.

* * *

**Disclaimer: Only Mo is mine. Review, please? You know how much they mean :)**


	2. Chapter 2

**AN:** So I changed the summary a bit, but I think this explains it better. Enjoy this chapter! I'm always one chapter ahead with writing, so Chapter 3 is done. Review, review, review! I tried to keep everyone in character, but we'll get more in depth next chapter. Thanks to those of you who reviewed! I'll reply individually in a few hours, after work.

**Chapter 2**

The knock at the door roused Mo from sleep. Her eyes flitter open and she rolled over, looking at the door until the knock sounded again.

"Mo?" It was Sam. "Rise and shine, baby girl."

"I'm up," she called around a smile. "Give me a sec."

She saw up slowly. Her leg was leaning against the nightstand, but she didn't feel like putting it on just now. The door wasn't too far. She swung herself out of bed and, placing her arm against the wall, used to the balance as she hopped toward the door.

"Don't com in yet," she murmured against the crack. "Not till I say."

"Alright," he said as she unlocked the door and hurried as best she could back into bed. She slid in and pulled the covers over her lower body before calling Sam in. He poked his head around, smiled, and headed over to her, perching at the foot of the bed, taking up the space where her missing leg should have been.

"Nice hair," he teased, and she mumbled out a groan and attempted to flatten it with her hands.

"What's up?" she asked.

"Steve thought I should wake you and 'brief' you on the situation," he said, then tilted his head toward the door. "Steve!" he hollered. "Come on in."

"She's decent?" Steve's voice drifted down the hall. Sam looked at Mo, one brow raised. Mo always slept in stretchy spandex shorts and a sports bra. She shrugged. Yeah, she was decent.

"Yeah," Sam called, and Steve opened the door. She saw his eyes go immediately to the prosthetic and a look of sympathy flashed, but then he smiled a warm, heart-melting smile at Mo, and she flushed.

"So," she said, clearing her throat.

"Right," Sam said as Steve came closer. "You wanna take the lead here, buddy?"

Steve bobbed his head. "The other man in this apartment is—he's an old friend of mine. My best friend," Steve murmured, his eyes lost for a moment before they cleared. "He's in a bad place right now, been through the ringer. He's suffering."

"It's bad," Sam added.

"It is," Steve agreed. "He's—he's anxious, all the time. Tense. Frightened."

"Angry," Sam went on. "Mean."

"_Scared_," Steve interrupted defensively. "Lost. Confused."

"He can be an asshole," Sam said blandly, and Steve shook his head.

"Think of what he's been through." Sam shrugged one shoulder. "He—there's good days and there's bad days."

"What's today?"

"Too soon to tell," Steve murmured with a quirk of his mouth. "He's in the kitchen now, though. We told him about you. He knows why you're here."

"How'd he take it?"

"Alright," Steve allowed. "He's—more rational today."

"What's wrong with him?"

"What isn't?" Sam said. "It's a lot. He's pretty messed up—you know he is," Sam added with a look at Steve. "He usually refuses help, definitely doesn't want doctors or anyone from SHIELD, too risky."

"Some days he's more raitonal than others," Steve went on. "Some days he understands that he needs help. Others, he refuses it."

"That's putting it lightly," Sam said mildly. "But he won't talk to either of us. So we told him we were bringing in someone else, someone he could trust, and he seemed less… skittish."

Mo stared at them. She noticed Steve's eyes were avoiding looking anywhere but at her face, and she smiled a little, remembering her clothing, or lack thereof. But then she narrowed her eyes, down to business. "What aren't you telling me?"

Steve and Sam exchanged a glance. "Tell her, man. She can handle it."

"Handle _what_?"

"The ah—soldier—you're going to meet. Well, he's… he's kind of…"

"He's the Winter Soldier," Sam blurted out, and Mo laughed. Right. The Winter Soldier. But when their faces didn't change, the smile slowly slid off her face.

"The… what. No." She laughed shortly. "Isn't that guy, like, a murderer or whatever?"

"_Was_." Steve said sharply. "And he _was_ an assassin. But he is my bet friend. His name is Bucky Barnes—"

"Wasn't this dude all over the news not too long ago? Like, this is a joke right? Right, Sam?" She looked into his face and it was uncharacteristically sober. Her heart sank. "No, this guy needs more help than what I can offer. He needs—"

"Mo, you got this," Sam urged. "See, it's a funny situation."

"Funny? Oh, do tell," she said sarcastically, glaring. "This guy will _kill_ me."

"He won't," Steve said.

"Sam, explain. _Now_."

"He's the Winter Soldier," Sam said quickly. "But he's also some dude named Bucky. Bucky Barnes."

"I need a better explanation, Sam!"

"Okay, okay! I mean, it's like he's got two personalities, alright? Like, sometimes he's Bucky, and he's rational and just like—well he's still crazy, but he's not like psycho-killer crazy, you know? When he's Bucky, he's just a guy with PTSD, same as we were. But sometimes he's this other dude, the Winter Soldier—"

"Is he dangerous?"

"No," Steve said just as Sam said "Maybe."

She stared them down. "When he's the Soldier, he's not violent," Sam said. "He's just angry. Kinda an asshole, like I said. Dark, quiet."

"This isn't my line of work, Sam. I'm not even studying dissociative identity disorder. which is what this sounds like. I mean, I've taken classes, but I don't know how to merge his personalities. I study PTSD and memory—"

"The dude's got PTSD," Sam said. "It's a major problem. He's also got terrible memory issues. When he's the Soldier, he can't remember anything, he gets flashbacks, and he doesn't know Bucky exists. He thinks he's only the Winter Soldier. When he's this Bucky character, he still can't remember much about himself, but he remembers the things he's done as the Winter Soldier. He knows the Winter Soldier exists, in his mind. But the PTSD is the most important issue—"

Mo's eyes sparkled for a moment, clearly intrigued as she breathed, "So that makes Bucky the host," before she remembered she was supposed to be angry. She glared. "I think the multiple personalities are the most important issue."

"Well, study up, nerd," Sam teased. Mo rubbed her eyes.

"I—I don't even know—"

"Yes you do. You said you'd learned about it in classes."

"You brought me here under false pretenses," she snapped.

"I did not!" Sam said defensively. "Mo, come on, you're already here. We're not asking for miracles, just—just meet the guy, alright? Just meet him. And if you don't want to help, you can leave."

_Meet the Winter Soldier_, she thought incredulously. Well, now it all made sense. Now she knew why he had picked her instead of a professional. But working with DID, dissociative identity disorder, wasn't easy. They would have to reconcile the personalities, which were probably struggling for dominance, and—

"Well?" Sam asked. "What do you say?"

"I say you're an ass," she growled.

"You won't be alone in this," Steve offered gently. "Sam and I are going to help. We'll be a team."

"Get out of my room."

"Is that a yes?" Sam asked.

She hit him with a pillow and he grinned, grabbing Steve, who looked immensely worried, by the arm and dragging him out with him.

* * *

Bucky—was that even his name? His mind spun. Didn't feel right. He paced from the fridge to the table and back again. Steve—Steve, who he knew, who he was familiar with, who was something steady—had told him about this person who was going to help, though he hadn't said much. Bucky wasn't a fool. He knew he was crazy. He knew he needed help. But he also knew that this was a huge risk. And then there was the whole issue of his pride—

"Buck?"

Bucky turned around, massaging his throbbing forehead, and his eyes fell on Steve. It was strange, somehow _knowing_ that he knew Steve Rogers, knowing that Steve Rogers could be trusted, but then not knowing much _about_ Steve Rogers. Steve had told them they were friends, and he had believed him. What else would explain the calm that sometimes came over him whenever Steve was around? But it was all so jumbled and confusing. He hated the way Steve looked at him, his eyes alight with such hope and fondness. He didn't deserve it. Not after the things he had done.

He wasn't a fool. He knew he'd been tortured and brainwashed. He knew he had done awful things, but those things were vague. He just got them back in painful flashes, leaving him crippled, guilt-ridden. The strangest things would trigger those memories. Bucky closed his eyes. Don't go there, don't go there, don't go there—

"Hey." A strong hand on his shoulder and his eyes snapped open. "Come back to me, buddy." Bucky nodded and rubbed at his burning eyes. "Sam's friend wants to meet you."

Bucky clenched his jaw and nodded stiffly. His body was shaking for some reason. He felt hot. Flustered. His head pounded. A look of sympathy moved Steve's features. "We're gonna help you," Steve said, squeezing his shoulder and removing his hand. Bucky backed away a little, avoiding eye contact. There was movement down the hall, drawing his gaze, and he tried to focus on it rather than the turmoil inside.

Sam stepped into view first. Bucky didn't really feel one way or the other about him. Feeling anything about anyone was just too exhausting for him. There were footsteps behind him; Bucky could hear them clearly, and his improved senses and strength only served as reminders to the fact that he had become a monster. He swallowed convulsively. He hated the way he listened to those footsteps; instinctually, and like a predator, noting that they were off slightly, like the person had a limp, and a limp meant weakness, and he hated that he recognized and was soothed by this.

"Hey," Sam said, unease clearly in his voice. Bucky said nothing.

"Bucky," Steve said, drawing the others closer. "This is Sam's friend. Moriah Fox." A woman? Bucky suddenly felt fury pump through him, white hot. Something like betrayal. Steve was till speaking. "…Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes."

"Pleasure," the woman said, and he saw her offer her brown hand to him. He refused to look at her face, to look at any part of her, staring around the room. He thought to intimidate her, and offered her his metal arm, smirking slightly, expecting her to cringe away. There was a palpable tension in the air, and he was surprised as she grasped the hand firmly in hers.

"Wow," she said, sounding awed. She flipped his hand over in hers, now touching it with both hands. He was alarmed. "How'd you get lucky enough to get one of these? Mine's just like—wow, this is advanced."

This caught his attention and he glanced at her, still avoiding eye contact, and looked at her body instead. And he understood. The scars, and the—she was missing a limb, and it had been replaced by a clunky prosthetic, one that looked almost comical in comparison to his. And he understood. He snatched his hand away and rounded on Steve, suddenly furious.

"_This_ is who you thought to bring to meet _me?_" He demanded. "Some little girl? Steve, _look_ at her. She's not even whole. I could crush her as easily as breathing."

"I—" Steve started, but the woman cut him off.

"Excuse you? _Little girl_?" The woman seemed to puff up. "My name is _Sergeant_ Moriah Fox, _soldier_," she spit. "I was a level three combat medic for the United States Army. I served seven months in Afghanistan before I got _blown up_. We're the same rank. Show some respect."

He was taken aback, to say the least. Her voice held that military authority. He glanced at Steve, then at Sam, who was grinning, and then at the girl—well, not _at_ her, but at a point past her shoulder. He still didn't know what she looked like.

"And I'm here to help you," she went on, her voice still authoritative, but slightly less biting. "I suffered from posttraumatic stress disorder and posttraumatic memory loss myself after the incident. I know what you're going through."

At this he chuckled darkly. "With all due respect, ma'am," he said. "You have no idea what I'm going through." He thought a moment before adding, "And you do have my respect."

"And you have mine," she said. Then she sighed softly, limped over to the table, and sat. "They told me some of what happened to you," she offered. "I'm sorry."

"I don't need your pity," he growled.

"Bucky," Steve said, a warning in his voice. Bucky sighed. He was aware of the woman staring at him. There was an awkward silence, and finally she spoke.

"Can I see your eyes?"

"What?"

"Your eyes. Can I see them? Look at me." He hesitated. He knew what his eyes were like. Blue. Dark. Shadowed. He looked up at her, his eyes settling on her face until she met his eyes; hers were a warm, earthy green standing out against her caramel-colored skin. He met them for only a moment before he looked away quickly. Hers were plain, open, without judgment. He felt like she saw right through him, and it made him nervous. Eye contact always made him nervous. He felt trapped suddenly. The room was too small, closing in.

"I, uh," he said blankly. "I'm going to go."

"Bucky," Steve said gently. "You're okay." He felt Steve's fingers brush the skin of his arm and he spun away, knocking his hand back roughly and jostling the kitchen table. He backed away from them, back down the hall toward the bathroom where he slept. They all thought it was strange, but he had made it his. It was his safe place. He would go there, and he would hide for hours, mentally tormenting himself, ripping himself to shreds, berating himself and drowning in his shame and guilt and worthlessness. It was always the same.

He was aware of everyone staring at him, and he understood. He seemed to be having a silent meltdown. He hated the way his voice was rough and shook when he spoke:

"Leave me alone."

* * *

"Well, that was interesting," Mo said dryly. Steve slumped into the wooden chair across from her. "He seems… nice."

Sam laughed. "You did good," he said.

"I said, like, three words to the guy and he nearly went catatonic," she said, referring to the way he had suddenly locked up in the kitchen, stock still, shaking.

"He does that," Sam allowed. "So what's your plan?"

Mo shook her head. "I need to think. But I'll talk to him later tonight, maybe."

"Just," Steve started, his voice softer so Bucky wouldn't hear. "Be gentle with him, okay?"

"I won't push him unless he needs to be pushed," Mo replied. "Don't worry." Steve didn't look soothed. Mo sighed, racking her brain. He definitely had a problem with eye contact. And with pity. And he was clearly worried about snapping her in two; he thought her weak, which was probably true. He could easily break her; he was about six inches taller than she was and he was much larger. Not quite as large as Steve, who was only slightly taller, but large enough. To be honest, he frightened her. But that look in his eyes when he had gone "catatonic" as she had said… that was the look that would convince her to stay and help. Not just for him, but Steve, as well. His face had been heartbreaking to watch through the entire exchange.

She sighed, rubbing her eyes. She just needed to get to know him, first, in order to learn how to approach him.

Steve invited him to dinner later that night, but he refused. He hadn't emerged since their exchange. She heard little bumps from the bathroom, occasionally—and apparently no one knew why he had confined himself to a bathroom, of all places. But she was thoroughly intrigued. And, like most people, she was drawn to the broken ones. But her stomach was in knots. She had to be careful around him, for fear of triggering or upsetting him further. But she was so fascinated. Right now, she just wanted to know everything.

Steve and Sam were speaking over dinner while she sat in silence, considering. But all three of them jumped and turned toward the bathroom when there was a low, muffled cry, a thud, and a crash. Steve and Mo were on their feet quickly, but Sam grabbed Steve's arm, shaking his head.

"You're a little overbearing sometimes, bro," he said calmly, as though these sounds were a regular occurrence. "Let her go. This is why she's here."

Mo glanced over her shoulder at Steve; his expression was wounded, but he nodded her forward.

* * *

**AN: Thanks for reading! Please let me know what you thought! Like I said, more in depth next chapter, which is written and just needs to be posted. :)**


	3. Chapter 3

**AN:** **Had a lot of fun writing from Bucky's perspective in this one. I feel like we get a nice look into his head, setting the stage for what they're all going to be dealing with from now on. I hope you enjoy it! Please remember to leave a review, as always :)**

* * *

**Chapter 3**

Mo knocked softly on the door, leaning against it, listening for sounds of life. When she got no response, she thought to call out to him, but was unsure of what _to_ call him. Bucky seemed far too familiar. That was out of the question. James was another option, but, again, somehow seemed too familiar, to intimate. The only one she could see calling him James was Steve. Calling him soldier, as she might speak to someone else in the army seemed like it might be too triggering, given his past and the whole Winter Soldier thing. She had called him it once, but the situation had been different; they had been speaking like soldiers. Besides, calling him Soldier on a day-to-day basis seemed too… anonymous. It was an occupation, not a name. She didn't like that it seemed to reduce him down to an occupation or strip him of his identity.

"Barnes?" she called softly, leaning to press her mouth close to the crack in the door. Barnes seemed like the best option; that was how you talked to someone else in the army, anyway, and it didn't sap him completely of his identity.

"Go away." The voice on the other side of the door was husky, pained.

"Everything okay in there?"

"_Go away_, I said."

"I just want to talk to you, Barnes," she said, keeping her voice gentle.

"I can't," he said, and his voice sounded distant, like he was on the other side of the bathroom. "I thought I could but I can't."

"I'm not going to pick your brain," she said with a little laugh. "I really do just want to talk." He didn't respond. She sighed. "You're not going to let me in, are you?" The little scoff from the other side of the door confirmed her suspicions. "Alright," she said, and turned around, leaning her back against the door. She slid slowly down, her prosthetic jutting out awkwardly until her bottom hit the floor. She rearranged herself, then leaned her head against the door and closed her eyes for a moment, thinking. What did one ask when they wanted to get to know an ex-assassin who had been at his prime in the 40s and was struggling with his identity? It was absurd.

"Sorry I snapped at you earlier," she said, turning her face toward the door slightly. "I just really hate it when people get that attitude with me, you know? _Just a girl_. I got enough of that from the army, till I proved myself. Had to work twice as hard as any man there, but I did it." Her mouth quirked slightly. "Nice touch," she added, "trying to intimidate me with the arm." She'd seen the act for what it was; she wasn't oblivious.

It was silent for a long time after that. It was late. She picked at her fingernails aimlessly. She was patient, she could wait. But as time ticked on, she figured he had either fallen asleep, or that he really was absolutely not going to talk to her. She got to her feet, using the door for support, and then leaned her head against the crack again so that he could hear her.

"No one else is dealing with your demons, Barnes," she said. "But we all have to face our own. Maybe you can't defeat them on your own. I couldn't."

She heard movement on the other side of the door and she smiled a little, triumphant—until he slammed into the door, causing it to rattle violently, and she yelped.

"_Go away!"_ he shouted, and his voice was ragged, livid, the voice of a desperate man. "_LEAVE ME ALONE!"_ He punctuated the shout with another rattle, probably having slammed his fists into the door; enough to rattle the frame and to rattle her bones, but not enough to shock it off the hinges. The force had been calculated, or at least controlled.

Still, that was the Winter Soldier on the other side of the door, and Mo was more than a little alarmed. She was panicky, her heart fluttering, her throat tightening up. She wished she had a weapon. Her eyes were wide as she took a couple of steps back from the door. Steve and Sam came around the corner, looking alarmed, but Mo raised a hand, freezing them in place. She looked back at the door.

"Alright," she breathed. "Alright." She didn't want to push him. Not yet. Besides, her heart was still doing panicky little things in her chest; sweat dampened the nape of her neck and rolled down her spine. She was flighty. She turned away from the door, back toward Steve and Sam, hoping she didn't look as frightened as she felt.

"I'm sorry."

* * *

_What have I become?_

"I'm sorry," he breathed, his voice soft, hoarse. His forehead was pressed against the door, hard, his lips drawn back from his teeth, his eyes squeezed shut. His dark hair fell around and clung to his face, sticky with sweat. His entire body shook. His hand dropped down to the doorknob, and with trembling fingers, he unlocked it and twisted it slightly, opening the door just a little. He leaned out, only a bit, and saw Sergeant Moriah Fox still standing there. The look of fright on her face (she masked it quickly, he would give her that) only served to confirm what he knew. He was a monster.

"I just—I can't do this. Not tonight."

"It's fine," she said slowly, her brows drawn, voice controlled, cool. "But this pity party stops tomorrow. It's time to put on your big boy pants, Barnes." She turned and limped away, and he closed and locked the door. He wasn't sure why he did it; the flimsy lock wasn't stopping anyone, except maybe Sergeant Fox, and she seemed like the type who could bust it down if she wanted. He sat on the edge of the bath tub, burying his fingers in his hair, trying to control the pain and the thoughts running rampant in his mind. He was in agony, drenched in sweat, his face pale and sunken. He dug his nails into his scalp and curled into a ball.

Why were they doing this? He wasn't worth saving.

All the things he had done. All the blood on his hands. He had been too weak to stop it. But what was _it?_ He couldn't remember specifics. Just snippets, and they terrified him. He should have fought harder. Should have taken his own life, but he'd been too much of a coward to do so. He disgusted himself, especially when he was around Steve, who radiated goodness, morality. He couldn't stand it. How had they ever been friends to begin with? Why had someone like Steve ever befriended someone like him?

He didn't want to let Steve down. He couldn't stand to see the hope in his forgotten friend's blue eyes. He should be grateful, he knew; Steve had saved him. Steve had been the one to start bringing the memories back. He had known Bucky; he had started it all. And all Bucky could do was disappoint. He hated himself for even thinking these thoughts; it was a continuous spiral, a continuous struggle of knowing that he should be better, be stronger, be worth their time. But he wasn't.

Part of him knew it wasn't his fault. He had been brainwashed. Tortured. He couldn't get the memories out of his head; he _knew_ this. But he also knew that he should have been stronger. None of this would be happening if he had been stronger.

He still couldn't remember much of his old life. He felt something for Steve, the bonds of friendship, but he couldn't remember that friendship. All he got anymore were the nightmares, the flashbacks, the blackouts. What had happened to him? What had made him this way? What had they done to him, to turn him into this empty husk? He knew he had done bad things, but there was a block in his mind—it didn't make _sense_. He couldn't understand who he had become, couldn't remember what he had done, but the thought of remembering terrified him. Fear ruled his life. He was always frightened. Frightened that he would break down, frightened that he would have another awful flashback—who would he be murdering this time?—frightened to know he was capable of such atrocities.

He wanted help. He _needed_ help. He wanted it to go away. He wanted it to stop.

He couldn't let her see him like this. He couldn't let _any_ of them see him like this. It was pathetic. Maybe Steve would lose that hopeful look, a thought that made him sick, but a thought that that provided him some relief as well. So far, Steve's faith had been unwavering. What would Bucky do if it was snuffed out? He didn't want to know. Steve was problematic. He frustrated Bucky, made him shockingly angry, made things worse, and yet he was a constant comfort; the knowledge that Steve knew everything Bucky had done, had seen his worst and still believed in him was more comforting than he cared to admit, even if Bucky didn't know what to do with it or how to show his appreciation. He felt familiar with Steve, most comfortable with him, and yet sometimes he couldn't stand to even be around him.

Sam was different. Sam was Steve's friend, so Bucky tolerated him but didn't care to get to know him any further. Even the thought was exhausting. But the fact that he was Steve's friend told Bucky enough. The fact that he was helping out in all of this was enough.

Sergeant Fox, on the other hand, he wasn't sure about at all. She was _Sam's_ friend. She had no ties to Steve, who was Bucky's compass in all of this. But if Steve trusted her, then that said something, right? She wasn't threatening, not really. After all, she was damaged, a retired soldier, smaller than the rest of them. But when she had spoken out to him, snapped at him earlier, he had to admit that he felt startled, taken aback, but part of him had appreciated it. For just a moment, someone hadn't tiptoed around him.

He needed her help, that much he could admit. He just hoped he hadn't frightened her off, even though that had been his _exact_ intention. Just how crazy was he? But she was distant from him, someone who wasn't invested in him, someone who had no expectations, no reason to care. It would be easier, he knew, to give her the gory details than it would be to tell Steve about all the demons that ran rampant in his mind. He didn't want to see the light fade from Steve's eyes, but this girl… she had his respect, as a fellow soldier, but aside from that, she was a complete stranger. And sometimes it was easier to lay yourself bare before someone who had no idea who you were supposed to be.

She was right. Tomorrow, things would change. Tomorrow he would face the demons. He would try to be better, even though he wasn't sure he would ever be better. But he could improve, right? He could stop the pain a little, right?

But another thought still lingered, always at the back of his mind. It had surfaced, again, when he had rushed the door, intending to scare Sergeant Fox away: what if he lost control? What if, heaven forbid, he hurt one of them like he hurt those other people? He had such violent thoughts sometimes, such violent impulses. He didn't know where they came from, but they only served to deepen his fear. He knew what he was capable of.

He sat up, trailing his hands over his face, putting pressure on his eyes with his palms. Tomorrow, he would try.

* * *

"I don't know if I can do this," Mo confessed, sitting on the edge of her bed. They had all moved upstairs to talk where Barnes couldn't hear. She had detached her leg, and noticed that every so often Steve's eyes would drift down to where her leg should have been. Sam had been around her enough in the past to be used to it by now. Mo lifted her face from her hands and looked from one man to the other. "But I want to try."

"That's my girl," Sam said with a smile. "I knew he wouldn't scare you off." He stepped forward and ruffled her hair, pushing her head to the side.

"That's all I ask," Steve said, standing near the door.

"I'm going to need help," she said.

"Anything," Steve agreed quickly. Mo stood and Steve watched her, looking alarmed as she tried to get around with only one leg. Sam took her spot on the bed, looking relaxed as she hobbled over to the small chair and dragged it away from the desk, balancing precariously. Steve had finally had enough. He stepped forward, closing the distance between them in in two long strides, and gently gripped her upper arm.

"Allow me," he said, gently helping her back to the bed and sitting her down before pulling the chair closer and sitting across from her and Sam.

"Captain Rogers," she started, avoiding eye contact and hoping her skin was dark enough to hide her blush. She tried to make her voice chastising, but failed miserably. How could she when she was looking into that sincere face?

"Steve," he said, smiling.

"Steve," she said. "You really don't need to look at me like that. I'm not gong to tip over. Relax a little; I'm perfectly capable." She offered a gentle smile and brushed her hand through her hair, looking away from his face. What was wrong with her? She was acting like she was in middle school, struck by a cute boy. _Captain_ _America,_ she thought, wanting nothing more than to hide her face.

"I apologize," Steve said, ducking his head. "I didn't mean to imply—"

"You didn't. It's okay." Mo blew out a breath and Sam leaned on her shoulder. "Just treat me like anyone else, please."

"It's just in his nature," Sam said. "I don't have that problem."

"I know," Mo said, knocking her shoulder into his. "You'd push me right over. At least there's one gentleman in the room."

Sam's eyes widened and he looked insulted. Mo glared at him, then rubbed her palms together, looking between the two.

"So what's your plan?" Steve asked, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees. "Do you think he can be helped?"

"He's in a bad place," Mo said. "But so was I." She looked at Sam, who nodded somberly. "But we can bring him back, I think." _I hope._ "He just has to want it. You can't force someone to accept your help."

"Just… don't be too hard on him," Steve said. "I can only imagine what he's been through." A dark expression crossed his face. "He was—_is —_a good man."

"Tell me about him."

"What do you want to know?"

"Everything. Start at the beginning."

* * *

**AN:**** And that's that! Please, don't just assume Mo is in love with Steve already. This is supposed to be realistic; of course she's blushing around him, she's still totally star struck! I still haven't decided on any romances, but feel free to leave input in your reviews! I'm loving the feedback, and I make a point to reply to all of you, especially new reviewers. I love getting into Bucky's head more, and I can't wait to get further into it. Much more interaction with Bucky next chapter, so you'll be able to see how he acts around everyone, from multiple points of view. And a possibly glimpse of the Winter Soldier, if I don't change it. We shall see! But we will see Bucky in Winter Soldier mode a few times—just gotta get that first time right. Stay tuned!**

**Also, there's tons of history and backstory with Sam and Mo, and I cannot wait to get into that and reveal it to you guys!**


	4. Chapter 4

**AN: Gosh, I love writing this. This one is a longer chapter, and was tons of fun to write. Bucky I'm enjoying writing; I just love the little scenes he gets in here, and I'm having fun developing his character, and Mo as well. I feel like we get a much better look at them both here. I hope you guys enjoy this one as much as I did, please leave some feedback! :)**

* * *

**Chapter 4**

"How is he?" Mo asked, looking up from her plate at Steve, who had just entered the kitchen after having spoken to Barnes. Sam, who was sitting next to her, crunched on a piece of bacon and looked expectantly at Steve.

"We in for a good day or a bad day?" he asked.

Steve smiled a little. "It's a good day," he said, serving himself some food.

"He coming out?"

"Eventually," Steve said, and by Sam's expression, Mo figured this was a rare occurrence. Steve sat across from her and Sam, and Mo's eyes widened slightly at the amount of food on his plate. Then again, he _was_ a super soldier. She could only imagine how much food he needed to keep up with his metabolism. "Good morning," he said to Mo as he sat.

"Morning," she replied around a smile, taking a bite of her eggs. She twisted her fork around in her fingers thoughtfully. "So when he comes out," she started, referring to Barnes, but never finished. The bathroom door opened and all heads turned to look in its direction as Barnes entered the kitchen. Though she had only seen him twice—once when they first met, and once when he had apologized—he looked different, somehow. More put together, in a sense, even though his face was drawn and tense.

He looked up at them when he entered, his blue eyes switching to each of them in turn. Mo smiled. "Speak of the devil," she said. "Good morning." He stood where he was for a moment, looking uncertain.

"Good morning," he finally replied.

His cheeks were gaunt, his mouth thin, his eyes shadowed. A light shadow of stubble lined his jaw, and his eyebrows were drawn, creased in the middle. He had tied his brown hair back, but little wisps had escaped. He looked thin, tired—not to say he was skinny. That wasn't the case; he was near Steve in size. But the hollows in his cheeks and eyes suggested it had been a while since he'd eaten or gotten a good night's sleep.

She watched his eyes flick to Steve. "Grab some chow," Steve said, voice warm and friendly as ever. He motioned to the chair beside him, across from Mo, tugging it out slightly. "Care to join us?"

Again, it took him a while to respond, but he finally nodded. Mo's eyes traced him for a moment as he made his way around the kitchen, and she couldn't help but think what a strange sight it was, this huge man meandering around a kitchen, dressed entirely in black with a glove on his metal hand (to hide it from view?) and a dark expression, shoveling bacon onto a suddenly delicate-looking little glass plate. He looked so uncertain, entirely out of his element, his shoulders hunched slightly, and Mo's heart went out to him. She understood. It was a feeling they all could relate to, having returned from war and being thrust into a different, normal world. It was a difficult adjustment; it was hard to suddenly go from using your hands for war to using them to do something as normal as pick up a piece of bacon.

Mo looked at Sam and he met her eyes, and the look on his face told her he understood, too. They'd both been there, and she knew Steve had as well. _He_ had had to adjust to a completely different decade. The room was painfully silent as Barnes moved around, and Mo couldn't take it. Even Sam looked uncomfortable, and she suspected that he was feeling the same thing she was.

"Forks are in the top drawer to your right," Sam said. "Yeah, right there."

Barnes grabbed one and came to join them, sitting across from Mo. Judging by the silence and the looks on Sam and Steve's faces, she guessed this was unusual. Surprisingly, Barnes was the first to speak. He leaned his elbows on the table, fork in hand, and looked at Mo.

"So," he said. "How are _you_ going to fix _me_?" He wore a wry little smile. Mo licked her lips.

"Do you think you're broken?" she asked, watching his face. He laughed a little, avoiding eye contact and shaking his head slightly, that smile spreading.

"Do you remember what you said to me last night?" he asked. "About my demons?" She nodded. He grinned, leaning toward her slightly over the table. "Well, let's just say I think my demons could wipe the floor with yours."

"Sergeant Barnes," she said with a little tilt of her head. "Did you just make a joke?" He chuckled a little, shaking his head and sitting back in his seat. "Well," she said, "maybe that's true, but it doesn't answer my question." The smile was completely gone from his face now. He stabbed an egg with his fork and inspected it.

"Broken," he repeated. She watched him glance at Steve from the corner of his eye, looking uncomfortable. Finally he nodded. It was quiet for a beat.

"I had nightmares," Sam said suddenly. His eyes were distant. "And I mean _nightmares_. The kind where you wake up in pieces." Mo looked at him and squeezed his bicep briefly, giving a little smile. Sam had been in her profession; she knew what he was doing, sharing his own experiences so that Barnes felt less alienated and more comfortable. You couldn't expect someone to open up while remaining closed off yourself. "I don't know what was worse, the nightmares or the flashbacks." He shook his head a little, scrubbing a hand over his face. Steve didn't speak; his face was cool, composed, sympathetic.

"The flashbacks," Barnes said softly, and Mo's eyes snapped to him. "It's definitely the flashbacks."

Mo was nodding slowly. The mood had suddenly gone very dark. "When mine happened," she said, "they'd be triggered by a sound or—or a color. And all of a sudden it was like I wasn't there anymore—I was back in Afghanistan with blood on my hands." She could see Barnes nodding along.

"I can't move," Barnes continued. "I can't do anything until it passes. I'm just trapped."

"In your own body," Sam finished. Barnes swallowed convulsively; she could see the motion in his throat as he blinked and turned his face away.

Mo sighed softly and looked at Steve. Their eyes held for a moment before she lifted her hand, waving it in a circle, motioning to each of them. It caught Barnes's attention and he looked up. She caught his eye briefly, but it didn't hold. "We're all a little broken," she said softly. "Well, I don't know about Steve, but I know about Sam and me. And we're definitely a little broken."

Sam didn't make a smart comeback or quip. He just looked at Barnes. "You'll be okay, man." And Barnes suddenly looked extremely uncomfortable, like he wanted to run.

"What normally triggers you?" Mo asked Barnes. "If you don't mind the question."

Barnes shrugged. "It can be anything. Something I see, a sound, a taste."

"What are the flashbacks normally of?"

Barnes hunched his shoulders, fidgeted, stared at the table. Mo caught him glancing at Steve again, flinching a little as Steve grasped his shoulder supportively, Barnes's upper lip drawing back from his teeth slightly. And then it clicked; there was something between them, something that was making it difficult for Barnes, and it made sense. Mo tapped Sam's thigh, caught his eye, and nodded at the exchange. Sam looked, then looked at Mo again. She jerked her chin toward a different room, and Sam understood.

"Hey," Sam said, standing suddenly. The movement had been too sudden, though, and Barnes was startled. Steve glanced up from Barnes to look at Sam. "Wanna go play some ball?"

Steve's brow creased. "But—"

"Come on," Sam said. "Just a quick game."

"I—oh. Alright," Steve said, understanding in his eyes. He stood slowly, giving Barnes's shoulder a squeeze looking reluctant. "We'll be right outside," he said, and Mo's heart sped up a little. She didn't want them to go _outside._ What if something went wrong with Barnes? What if she needed something? Her palms started to sweat a little as the door closed behind them, but she turned to Barnes with a smile. He chuckled darkly.

"Could they be more obvious?" He tapped his fingers on the table. Mo, trying to steady her pulse, scooted her chair closer and leaned closer to Barnes across the table. He looked up at her. "You're not afraid?"

"Afraid of what?"

"Me."

Afraid? She was afraid. Nervous. Jittery. But she shook her head. "Should I be?" His eyes flicked up to hers. He nodded slowly. "Why?"

"I… I don't know. I don't remember." He grimaced like he was in pain. Steve had told her last night that he couldn't remember the specifics of the Winter Soldier, couldn't remember ever being that man; all he got was flashbacks, fear, nightmares that suggested he had done awful things and had awful things done to him.

"But you think I should be afraid," she repeated.

"I've done terrible things."

"We all have," she said gently.

"Not like me. You can't possibly understand what it's like in here." He tapped his temple. "I'm nuts. My brain is scrambled."

"Feels like your body's waging war on you, doesn't it?" she asked softly. He nodded. "Granted, I haven't been through what you've been through, but I can understand the feeling, even if it's not the same."

"What was it like for you?" Mo took a deep breath. She really, _really_ didn't like to think about it or dwell on the past. She knew it was unhealthy, and she actively told others not to avoid the past, to accept it and to come to terms with it, but it was difficult, and she understood that. She must have taken too long to answer, because he finally said: "You don't have to answer. I shouldn't have pried."

"It was awful," she said, ignoring him. "While I was in Afghanistan, I killed two men. It wasn't my job. I was a medic; I was supposed to _save_ people. But I was—am—trained to kill, and I didn't have a choice. So I had nightmares about that for a while. But the explosion was the worst part for me. I couldn't remember it right away, but the pieces came back. Flashbacks, nightmares, like you said. I was in a bad place. I was jumpy, anxious…" Barnes was nodding. "You feel any of that?"

"All the time," he said.

"It's PTSD. It's common in those who've seen combat. Sam and I both went through it. Steve too, probably."

"How do I _fix_ it?"

"You just… I don't know. I needed medication," she confessed. "Anti-anxiety meds, anti-depressants. It helped. But talking to people really did it. But the tricky part is you just want to be left alone, right?" He nodded. "I spent a lot of time alone, pushing people away. They just wanted to help, but I wasn't ready."

"I'm ready," Barnes rasped. "I have to be."

Mo thought for a moment. "Steve," she finally said, and his reaction was immediate. His face was drawn again, conflicted. "He gets to you, doesn't he?"

"He's my friend," but he sounded lost. Confused.

"You tense up whenever he's around, Barnes."

"He—I'm confused," Barnes murmured. "Sometimes he makes me feel better, but mostly…"

"He has faith in you," Mo said gently.

"That's the problem. His faith is misplaced." Mo tilted her head, and he went on. She was surprised; she hadn't expected to get this much out of him. Then again, this was the easy stuff. They hadn't even scratched the surface.

"Maybe not," Mo said. "You should hear the way he talks about you—"

"_That's the problem!"_ Mo started slightly, flinched a little. Barnes was suddenly shouting, and his body went rigid. His face was a mix of emotions, none of them good.

"Barnes," she said softly. "Calm down."

"He has _no idea_—if he knew—" Still shouting, he knocked a glass from the table where it shattered on impact with his hand—the metal one, she realized, and she tensed, suddenly very aware that he had two good legs and one impossibly strong metal arm, and that she had one leg and was half-blind. If this went bad, the odds were not in her favor.

"Barnes," Mo tried again, and he seemed lost to her for a moment. "Barnes, please."

He took a deep breath, his fists clenched on the table, then bowed his head and covered his face with his hands, his muscles relaxing. Mo's heart pounded in her throat, threatening to choke her. Her fingers were twitchy and she folded them in her lap, adjusting her expression, hoping she didn't look alarmed. He looked up after a few moments, his blue eyes stormy.

"I'm sorry," he said, voice husky.

"It's okay," she replied, her voice warm, understanding.

"I frightened you."

"No, you didn't."

"I can see the pulse in your neck," he countered. "Your heart is pounding." She clapped a hand over her neck and he leaned back in his seat, laughing mirthlessly. "Isn't that something?" he asked. "I can see the pulse in your neck. I can read you and your body language like a book, so that _I know how to attack you._ And his faith isn't misplaced?"

Mo swallowed. The look on his face was heartbreaking; scared, pleading, but he was right. She was more than a little scared. "You're gonna get through this, Barnes," was all she said. He looked at her helplessly, shaking his head.

She understood a lot more about Steve now though, just from that exchange. Barnes was definitely conflicted, and Steve's presence both helped and hurt him. And, she thought, the fact that Steve had once been the Winter Soldier's target probably didn't help things either. She thought for a while in the silence that followed, noticing that he hadn't really touched his food.

"You should eat," she finally said. He stabbed an egg and took a bite, swallowing it down quickly. She sighed into the silence that fell again.

"I'm nuts," he whispered after a few minutes. She smiled a little.

"So, you're brain's a little sick." She shrugged. "That's okay." At this he laughed softly, shaking his head, and she was determined to move on from the topic of Steve, to something lighter, perhaps. His arm caught her eye again; he was wearing a black long sleeve with a black glove on the one hand. She quirked her eyebrows. "What's with the glove?"

* * *

He looked down at his hand and balled it into a fist. His stomach turned with revulsion at the thought of it and he pulled it off the table, hiding it from view.

"It's repulsive," he said. She did that thing—that little head tilt she did when her interest had been piqued, when she was curious about something. She would tilt her head just slightly to the right, always the right, and her eyebrows would scrunch up a little.

"Repulsive?" she echoed.

"It's an abomination," he replied, voice rough. Her mouth puckered and her eyes looked sad. He flexed his fingers beneath the table.

"Why do you say that? I—it's incredible." He thought suddenly of her own fake limb and shook his head, running a hand over his hair, some of it falling loose around his face.

"It's just a tool," he said darkly. "I'm not going to talk about this."

"Alright," she said, raising her hands in surrender. He noticed that they shook, only slightly, something that others wouldn't notice. But he did. "Can I see it?" she asked, and her eyes were hopeful. He started to shake his head, but he faltered. Was there a reason for this? Was it part of the process? He wanted to get better, he reminded himself. Whatever it takes.

He hadn't made his decision yet when she said, "I'll show you mine if you show me yours," with a coy little smile that, maybe a long, long time ago, he would have thought was flirtatious. Maybe he would have said something clever in return. "I'm kidding," she said. "You don't have to."

He couldn't do it. He couldn't stand the sight of it, much less show it off to someone else. "Maybe another time," he said.

"I understand," she replied with a small smile. "When I first got mine, I couldn't stand the sight of it. Yours is much nicer, though."

"_Nice_," he spit the word like a curse. "It's a weapon."

"Sorry, you're right. That was really insensitive."

Insensitive. He was the definition of the word, yet she was apologizing.

"You know," she mused, "they make these things called _designer prosthetics_ now." She looked longingly down at her leg. "Ridiculous, isn't it? But if I could afford one, I would have it."

"How much of your leg is missing?"

She raised an eyebrow at him and he looked away. "Above the knee," she said, "mid-thigh." Then, as if to add on, she said, "My right eye is fake, too. But that looks more realistic, at least."

At this he glanced up and looked at her face, studying it intently. He hadn't noticed before; all he had noticed was the ropy scar slicing through her right eye, but it made sense. The thing was nasty; he could only imagine the damage that had been done to her face. And the rest of her body, come to think of it, now that he looked at more of her scars. It must have been awful for her. On top of it, he had filed that little bit of information about her eye away, noting that her right side was definitely her weaker side, and he hated himself for this. He decided not to mention it.

She shifted in her chair, drawing him from his thoughts. "It's rude to stare," she breathed, and the tone of her voice caught his attention. He looked up from the scars on her collarbone and studied her face again, and she looked different, suddenly. A little uncertain, her eyes downcast slightly. The confidence and authority she had radiated before had faded slightly. She swept her mass of curls over her shoulder, covering her scarred side. She glanced up at Bucky.

"I—I'm sorry, I didn't mean to—"

"I'm used to it," she said, lifting one shoulder in a half-hearted shrug. She stood abruptly and gathered her plate. "You done?" He had offended her. He knew he had. He was _such_ an idiot. He hated his own arm, he understood how she must have felt when his eyes roved her scars. Tactless, he was tactless.

"I can get it," he said, standing, towering over her as he gathered his plate and took hers from her hand. He dumped the food in the trash (once he remembered where it was) and placed the plates in the sink before turning to face her again, leaning against the counter. "I didn't mean to upset you—"

"You didn't," she said quickly. Her jaw was set, her eyes hard. "Okay? It just—it's fine. I'm used to it, really." Her tone softened and she absently traced her fingers over her scarred collarbone. He wondered if she realized she was doing it, or if it was a habit. "It just gets tiring sometimes, that's all." She tugged on one corkscrew curl, releasing it; he watched as it sprung back into place and was mildly fascinated. He had never seen a hair texture like hers before, or at least he had no memories of it. She glanced around the room, then settled her eyes back on him with a smile, and he tried not to notice that it didn't touch her right side the same way it touched her left. "We all have out battle scars, right?" At this, he nodded. "Wear 'em proud," she muttered to herself.

He could hear Steve and Sam returning from their game of _ball_, whatever sport that was. It could have been anything. They were laughing and teasing each other, and when Bucky heard the door open, he tensed immediately. She noticed and stepped strategically between him and the door, watching his face intently.

"Hi, guys," she called, her eyes still trained on his face.

"Mo!" Sam's voice was strained; he was panting.

"Get your ass beat, Wilson?" she asked, finally turning to face them.

"I'll say," Steve laughed, coming into the kitchen with Sam. "You guys are still in here?"

Bucky watched as Sergeant Fox—or was it Mo? What was he supposed to call her? He would have to ask—smiled at Sam. They were familiar, they seemed close, and he remembered that she had come here on Sam's request. There had to be something between them, some bond of friendship; it was a lot to ask of another person.

Sam went to grab a glass of water, stepping on the one that had already been shattered. "What the—? What happened here?"

"I dropped a glass," Bucky said before Sergeant Fox could respond.

"I completely forgot. I'll get it," said the sergeant.

"No, no," said Steve, stepping in front of her and stooping down. "I'll get it."

"Is this because of my leg, Captain Rogers?" asked Sergeant Fox, but there was a playful note to her voice, which puzzled Bucky.

"Of course not," Steve said, glancing over his shoulder with a smile. "I just don't need you to cut yourself." And then a hiss escaped from between his teeth, suggesting he had done just that.

"Ever the gentleman," Sam drawled. At the sound of Steve's hiss, Bucky turned to look and, as Steve stood, he caught a glimpse of the blood and the glass in his hand. And then, suddenly, his head exploded in pain and he dropped to his knees.

* * *

**AN:**** I had so much fun with this one! Bucky and Mo are so much fun to write, and I think we got some character development in here. Let me know what you thought! I'm really enjoying reading and responding to everyone's reviews, keep em coming!**


	5. Chapter 5

**AN: Flashback! I love this chapter because we get to see Mo in action. Gosh, I love her, and I loved writing her as she dealt with the situation. I hope you like it! I've learned about PTSD and the methods she uses are all suggested methods to helping someone with a flashback. Also, Bucky's reaction afterward is also common. :) Character development yay! We also get some nice Steve/Mo interaction.**

**Chapter 5**

Steve hadn't felt this useless in a long, long time. Bucky had had flashbacks before; they were a fairly common occurrence. But it never got any easier to watch him go through it. Sometimes he would move around, convinced he was somewhere, sometime else, doing things Steve couldn't begin to imagine. On those instances, Steve felt slightly less useless; he and Sam would corral Bucky, keep him inside, and make sure he didn't hurt himself or anyone else. These flashbacks were much worse; Bucky didn't move or try to run away. He stayed where he was, sometimes standing, sometimes on the floor. Sometimes he cried out; sometimes he was silent, vacant, and those were the scary times.

This was one of those times.

Steve didn't know what to do, and Sam wasn't an expert in any sense. The worst was that Steve could not begin to imagine the visions going on behind Bucky's blank eyes, but he always emerged worse for wear: sweaty, pale, shaking. Sometimes he cried. Sometimes he withdrew into himself, or got angry. Steve never knew what to expect. But at least when Bucky tried to get out of the house, Steve could stop him. He could be useful. But when he was like this, all he could do was stand there like a fool, or sit beside him, entirely helpless.

Steve's heart pounded in his chest as Bucky went to his knees, clutching his head, then, grimacing, slumped back against a cabinet. His palm stung slightly from where the glass had cut it, but it was a vague sensation, far in the back of his mind.

"Bucky," Steve gasped as Sam surged forward, attempting to catch Bucky but failing. He heard Mo gasp and he dropped the glass that had cut him, rushing to his friend's side. "Bucky?" Steve called, dropping to his knees beside Bucky, who had drawn his knees up, wrapped his arms around them, and pressed his chin to the tops of his knees. Steve reached out to touch him, but hesitated.

"Don't," Mo said. "Leave him. Steve, back away."

"But," he started, glancing over his shoulder at Mo. He found that her face was set, her eyes hard, her lips a thin line. Her shoulders were straight; she looked entirely different than she had a few moments ago when she had teased him.

"Just don't," she ordered. "Get away from him." Sam came up behind Steve and grabbed his shoulders, hauling him away. Helpless, Steve could only watch as Mo seemed to come alive again, and the transformation really was something to see. Before his eyes, she became a soldier again, her voice hard and firm, commanding.

"Sam," she said, stepping up to Bucky. "Make sure Steve stays over there."

"I'm his friend," Steve argued, and Mo spun around, her eyes hard.

"You triggered him," she said. "Steve, I need you to stay away for now."

"It's okay, man," Sam said, thumping his chest.

Mo threw an arm out toward the kitchen sink, using it for balance as she tried to sit down in front of Bucky's form. Steve watched as Sam stepped forward and helped her, and she didn't brush him off, only mumbled "thanks." When she was situated, her legs curled beneath her, she spoke again.

"How long does this normally last?" she demanded.

"It varies. Seconds, minutes," Steve said, shaking his head wildly. "Who knows?"

Steve took a step closer, but Mo threw her arm out, fixing him with a hard glare. "I mean it. Don't make me ask Sam to escort you out." Sam looked at Steve with wide eyes, eyebrows raised. "Right now, I need you to do exactly as I say. And I'm telling you to stay there. Do you understand me, Rogers?"

"Yes, ma'am," Steve replied. He responded as a soldier; she had addressed him as a soldier. He swallowed, left to watch the scene as it played out. Mo inched closer to Bucky.

"Is he going to hurt me?"

"Not when he's like this," Steve said.

"Alright. Sam, get me some ice cubes," she ordered, and it was like he was getting a glimpse into what she had been like when she had been a medic. Sam ran around to the freezer and withdrew a few ice cubes, wrapping them in a napkin. Mo was speaking to Bucky.

"You're in the kitchen," she was saying. "You're in the kitchen. This isn't real. You're safe." Steve watched as she reached out a hand to touch him, then hesitated, her fingers wilting slightly. She blinked, shook her head, set her jaw, and placed her hand on top of his head. "Your name is James Buchanan Barnes. Bucky. I need you to look around for me, can you do that? Look around for me."

Bucky didn't respond. Sam handed Mo the ice cubes and she placed them in her lap without acknowledging him. Sam came around to stand by Steve and watched as Mo worked. "James," she said, "Bucky, you're in the kitchen. You're safe." Bucky's lips draw back from his teeth in a grimace and he squeezed his eyes shut with a sound something like a scream. A vein stood out near his temple. The look of pain on his face was too much. Steve had to look away for a moment, pace in a circle, but refused to be weak for his friend; he had to watch.

"Look around the room. Can you tell me what you see?"

None of it seemed to be working. Steve couldn't stand it. "It's not working!" he shouted. "What are you trying to accomplish?"

"It's called grounding," she snapped back, bristling. "And it is working."

Just as she said it, Bucky croaked out a word: "Table."

"Very good," Mo said, and her voice was soothing, gentle. He hadn't heard her speak like this before. "Can you tell me your name?" When he didn't respond, she seemed to tuck herself closer to him. She lifted an ice cube in her free hand, the other still on top of his head. She slid that hand down his shoulder and over his flesh arm, maintaining contact with him, her hand finding his. She gently worked it loose from his other hand and cradled it carefully, turning his palm up and placing an ice cube in it. She folded his fingers around it and squeezed.

"Can you feel that?" she asked. Then, to Steve, she said, "I'm giving him the ice because it's an intense sensation. It'll give him something to focus on. It'll draw him out." Bucky's breathing was labored. Mo kept his fist between her hands, still squeezing, and continued to speak to him gently. "Focus on the cold," she urged him. "I know you can hear me. I know it's hard, and I know it's scary, but you're safe, I promise you. Just come back. Look at me. Look at my eyes." Bucky's eyes flicked up to her face. He was shaking, his eyes wild. He looked petrified. "Good," she soothed. "There you go. Do you remember where you are?"

And all at once, it was like Bucky's whole body drooped. His eyes closed, his forehead fell against his knees, and his shoulders slumped. He seemed to shrink.

"Bu—" Steve started, but Mo whipped around to glare at him.

"_Rogers,"_ she hissed. "Give him a minute. You can't overwhelm him."

She was still cradling the hand with the ice in it; water was leaking from between his fingers, dribbling down his arm. Bucky made a strange wounded sound, one that tore at Steve's insides, but Mo held him at bay. Steve took a deep breath, bouncing on the balls of his feet, remembering that this was why she was here. Steve had had no idea what to do, but she did. And he'd be lying if he said it didn't irk him a little, that she'd known what to do and that he had been entirely useless.

"Where'd you learn that?" Sam asked softly as they waited for Bucky to recover. Mo rubbed Bucky's shoulder with one hand.

"School," she said, and her voice was infinitely gentle, as though she was speaking around an upset child. "Reading."

"Nice," Sam said, and Mo smiled a little.

"_Don't—touch—me_." Mo's hand stilled. Bucky suddenly thrust the ice cube away and jerked away from her touch as though he'd been burned. Steve saw Mo's eyes widen, watched as she glanced at Sam, then at Steve, as though reassuring herself that they were there, close behind her. She flinched slightly as the ice shattered on the floor, closing her eyes a little.

Bucky straightened up against the counter, and Steve was suddenly struck by the sight in front of him, and he understood Bucky's harsh words: "This_ is who you brought to meet _me_?"_ Because Mo suddenly looked very, very fragile beside his friend, which was saying something, because Mo had never struck him as a fragile woman. The way she had handled the situation had earned his respect; the way she had shouted at him and taken control told him that she was more than capable of handling herself. But then, he knew what Bucky was capable of as well. Yet there she sat, folded on her knees, her hands in her lap, beside the man who seemed to dwarf her, who could suddenly lapse back into the Winter Soldier and snap her neck.

It was like watching a songbird sitting beside a hawk.

* * *

Bucky lifted his face. His head swam. He could feel himself shaking. The terror was still there, still very real. Steve made a move toward him, but Sam stepped between them. Bucky looked away. His hand was freezing and he looked at it, trying to focus on the feeling rather than the memories that fought to take him over.

He noticed blood dripping from Steve's fingertips, splattering on the floor, and felt the edges of his vision start to blur. He blinked heavily a couple of times, heard Sergeant Fox's voice distantly: "Steve, go clean your hand. We're losing him again." And then there was a hand on his again, squeezing the wrist; his hand was suddenly intensely cold again, and his brow furrowed. He looked down at his hand; two smaller brown hands were folded over his, squeezing it tightly, intensifying the cold.

"You're in the kitchen," a feminine voice said again, and his brow furrowed. He wasn't in a kitchen, was he? No, he was—a very cold hand touched his chin and he started at the sensation. "What is your name?"

His name? He was the Soldier. He didn't have one.

"Yes, you do. What's your name?" Had he said that out loud? He wasn't sure. He thought again, struggling against the visions that threatened to overtake him, and then it clicked: "James."

"James what?"

"Barnes."

"Good." The voice was warm, soft; he wanted to wrap himself in it. He was reminded of a time when he was very small and sick, and a woman had cared for him; she was warmth and kindness and good things, and nothing bad would happen while she was around. He blinked a couple of times and the visions melted away. He shook his head, to clear the images in his mind and to remove the hand that had gripped his chin.

He flexed his fingers, dropping the ice, and stared at his hands; the metal one was steady as ever, while the flesh one was pale white and shook violently. His entire body shook. Sweat dripped from his chin and he pressed his palms to his eyes with a groan and a grimace. His head felt like it was splitting open. Panic fluttered in his chest. He was breathing heavily. He looked up; Sam was standing a few feet away, eyes watchful but sympathetic; Sergeant Fox was just beside him, on his right side, the side with his _real_ arm. She was quiet, watching his face, and he snapped his head to the side to look at her, noting that she started slightly at the motion. Aside from that, however, her face was calm, serene.

"Welcome back," she said. He looked away, avoiding eye contact; he didn't like the way she seemed to see right through him, like she knew everything he was thinking, everything he was hiding. It was unnerving. He closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the cabinet with a low thud. He swallowed, trying to calm his nerves. His breathing was shaky, his heartbeat erratic.

"Did I… do anything?"

"Nah," Sam said. "Well, you screamed once and threw some ice, but that's about it."

"Ice," he repeated, flexing his hand.

"You had a flashback," Sergeant Fox explained, and he rolled his eyes.

"You don't say."

Her voice hardened. "And the ice helped bring you back." There was an implied _jackass_ at the end of her statement, but she was kind enough to leave it out. He blinked open his eyes and looked at her from the corner of his eye, his head still tilted back against the cabinet. He thought he should have said thank you, but he couldn't bring himself to say the words. He was completely humiliated. He wanted to hide. He wished they would stop looking at him.

"What are you looking at?" he finally snapped. "It's not going to happen again."

"Alright," the sergeant said, raising her hands to say that she didn't want to fight. He was aware that she was alarmingly close; she was lucky, he thought, that he hadn't hurt her. Sometimes, when he was lost, when his mind was somewhere else, he didn't have control.

The room tensed suddenly and he looked up; Steve had just reentered the room, his hand bandaged. He met Bucky's eyes and Bucky looked away quickly, the humiliation intensifying. But all Steve did was give him that encouraging smile, the little nod that said he wasn't disappointed, that he understood. Bucky's lip curled. If Steve had seen what Bucky had seen in that flashback, that faith would vanish. None of them understood. Perhaps he had been a fool to think that he could be fixed. He was definitely a fool.

Steve offered Bucky his hand to help him up, but Bucky ignored it, standing upright, trying not to stagger. He was a damned fool. They all were.

"Leave me alone," he spit at Steve. It had been the sight of blood and glass that had brought the flashback on. He hated himself for being so weak as to lose himself to it. He hated that Sergeant Fox had been able to help him; he hated the kind, non-judgmental look on her face as he came out of it. He rounded on all of them. "Stay away from me, all of you." He didn't know why he kept saying that. He hated being alone just as much as he craved it.

"Bucky," Steve said, and Bucky rounded on him.

"Especially you," he snarled. He wasn't sure why he was doing this to Steve, or to any of them. He was crazy, that was why. He wanted to push them away; he wasn't worth their time, and what the new visions had revealed only engrained that in his mind. A lump formed in his throat; he wanted to cry. The sensation made his voice raspy. He hated the look on Steve's face at his poisonous tone. But he couldn't undo it. He stalked past them, leaving the blood and ice on the floor, crunching glass on his way and shouldering Steve out of his way.

"Buck," Steve tried again, one last time, but Bucky ignored him, stalking back to his room and slamming the door.

* * *

The adrenaline rush was slowly fading, and she started to shake. Still on the floor, she took a deep, steadying breath and looked up at Sam. She wiped her sweaty palms on her pants and closed her eyes for a moment, centering herself before she tried to stand. And maybe it was the intensity of the situation, but her real leg was shaky, a little weak, and standing was harder than she thought it would be. She was discreet about it, but she thanked the heavens for Sam, who stepped up and helped her to her feet, wrapping her in a hug.

"You okay?" he asked softly, and she nodded against his shoulder and pushed away with her usual smile.

"I'm fine."

He rumpled her hair, then glanced around the kitchen and let out a low whistle, hands on his hips; the ice was melting on the floor, Steve's blood was scattered about in little droplets, and the glass hadn't been picked up yet. Steve was still looking in the direction of the bathroom.

"Sergeant Fox," he said suddenly, and his voice was hard. It was his soldier-voice.

Mo felt guilt prick at her mind. She bit her lower lip. She was kind; she tried to stay kind, and she hated slipping back into the role of _Sergeant_ Moriah Fox, ordering people about. And she hadn't missed the look on Steve's face, either, especially after she had said that _he_ had triggered Barnes. And Barnes's specification that _especially_ Steve should stay away probably hadn't helped much, either.

"Yes, sir?" she said, trying to keep her voice steady, slipping seamlessly back into military mode. Captain was a higher rank than sergeant, she thought. _Captain America._ Why was she suddenly so nervous? He turned his attention from down the hall to focus on her. His expression was hard, which only served to spike her nerves. It was the _Captain America_ face. She swallowed and met his gaze. All these years out of the military, she thought, and it never really left you. You were never done being a soldier.

"I'd like a word," he said, and she followed him into the living room, away from Sam.

"Oh, don't worry," Sam called. "I'll clean up!"

Her heart pounded against her ribcage. Oh, she was nervous; her stomach was in knots. He was going to chew her out. What had she been thinking? This was _Captain America_. She shouldn't have spoken to him the way she had. She shouldn't have tried to order him around. She was tempted to speak first, to apologize, but she didn't; when someone wanted a word with you, you shut up and took whatever it was they had to say. She was suddenly a private again; she was back in boot camp, a man shouting in her face, only inches away.

She stood in the living room as Steve paced in front of her, his expression hard as ever, his hands behind his back. She stared straight ahead, wondering what kind of person got themselves yelled at by Captain America. Her heart stuttered as he finally stopped pacing in front of her and faced her. Their eyes locked and his widened fractionally, his eyebrows drawing down.

"What's wrong?" he asked suddenly, his face concerned. She frowned.

"What?"

"You look upset. Is it because of Bucky? I'm sorry you had to see that—"

"What? No, that's why I'm here. I just—" she laughed abruptly, but it was a nervous, skittish laugh. "You're not angry?" He looked at her blankly. "I thought—I thought you called me in here to chew me out…"

"You just helped draw my best friend out of a flashback," Steve said.

"I yelled at you," she countered.

"You made the right call," he replied with a little smile.

"No, but I shouldn't have spoken to you that way."

At this he grinned, his eyes crinkling a little at the corners. "Do you _want_ me to be angry with you, Sergeant Fox?"

She ducked her head and smiled, shaking her head. "No, but I did want to apologize."

"There's nothing to forgive," he reassured her, placing a hand on her shoulder and meeting her eyes; he was very tall, and she had to look up at his face. "What you did in there was really something," he said, and she smiled; she could hear traces of the way he would speak in the 40s. "I should be thanking you. I was useless, but you knew what to do. If I had any doubts about you before, you proved them wrong."

She narrowed her eyes playfully. "You doubted me?"

He shrugged one shoulder and she laughed a little before he went on. "I understand that I triggered him," Steve said. "And sometimes he's so hostile toward me…"

Mo gave him a gentle smile. "It's not your fault," she soothed. "Think about it. You were his target for a while, right? So he was brainwashed to the point where killing you was basically his reason for existing. And now here you are, and you're friends. That's got to mess with his head, even if he doesn't really understand it." Steve nodded, then scrubbed a hand over his face.

"I hate feeling to helpless," he said. "I just want to help him, but I don't know how."

"Keep him in a safe environment," Mo offered. "Keep triggers to a minimum."

"We do our best," Steve said. "We try to keep it quiet; no loud sounds, no sudden moves, no shouting."

"That's good," Mo replied. "You've been helping him more than you know. All you can really do is be there when he needs you." Steve nodded. "Look, Steve," she sighed. "I know you love him, and I know you'd do anything for him. The best thing you can do is just treating him like normal. Don't push him. Because as much as you love him, you could be setting him back, given your… history."

"I understand," Steve said, sounding tired.

"Hey," she said, reaching out and swatting his massive bicep with the back of her hand. "We're going to get him through this, okay? I promise."

* * *

**AN: Next chapter, we'll officially meet the Winter Soldier. And the details of the flashbacks will be revealed as well, in time. So I figure we'll have maybe a chapter or two more of Bucky being as bad as he is before we really kick it in gear and get his recovery started, which means improvements, setbacks, more flashbacks, etc. But I feel like I needed to set all the groundwork first, which means establishing just how bad he is. I really hope you guys enjoyed this chapter; I know I did! I loved writing Mo and Steve in this one. **

**And don't worry, it won't all be intense and heavy (though I do plan on having it get VERY INTENSE at one point in his recovery). We'll have some light, fun moments as well. So like I said, maybe another chapter or two of groundwork before we get this rolling, including Sam/Mo history, a deeper look into Mo and her personal struggles with PTSD, etc. It's gonna be good!**

**Your reviews give me life, people, thank you so much!**


	6. Chapter 6

**AN: Some of the Winter Soldier in this one! It's pretty brief. I think this is the longest chapter yet! It took a few tries, but I finally got the right angle on it, and I'm excited. I feel like we finally hit that low point, and now Bucky can start building again. I think it's time for him to stop moping around, don't you? Please, please leave reviews! I love you guys!**

* * *

**Chapter 6**

The nights in Afghanistan had made Mo a frustratingly light sleeper. She rarely slept through the night; the tiniest sound, or the feeling of another presence in her room would wake her. Sometimes she woke up startled, imagining that someone was there with her. Other times, and would wake in a panic from a nightmare; those still happened but less often than they used to, thankfully. And sometimes she just woke up and stared straight ahead into the darkness, her thoughts swirling. Some nights, she couldn't get their faces out of her head. Some nights she still cried.

Tonight wasn't one of those nights. It had been a little over a week since the flashback, and in that time she and Barnes had spoken (he had started calling her Fox, dropping the 'sergeant' from her name, so at least he was getting comfortable), and she had learned a little more about him, but these things took time, and he still wasn't ready to open up. She hadn't started to lose hope, not yet, but it was difficult, sometimes. Occasionally, he would act fairly normal; he was doing a good job hiding the tumultuous feelings that raged inside of him. Other times, she wouldn't see him at all.

She didn't know what it was that had woken her. She switched the light on her cell phone on, checking the time: 4:43 am. It would be sunrise soon. She slept on her stomach, always in the same position, curled up, her good leg on top. She stretched out and pushed herself up, shivering a little. The house was eerily quiet. She looked around her room, feeling unnerved, and shone the light on her phone around, illuminating the dark corners. She was alone.

She pushed the sheets off her body and scooted to the edge of her bed, reaching for her prosthetic. She slipped into it, fastening the upper part around her hips like a belt, and stood. As usual, she wore only a sports bra and sleep shorts. Just to be safe, she snatched up a black tanktop and slipped it on, then tied her wild hair back in a ponytail. She headed downstairs, past the bathroom where Barnes spent his time. The door was closed, the light off. She trailed her hand along the wall for balance, using the cell phone for light still, looking around.

There was someone in the house. She wasn't sure how she knew, but she did, and she was _certain_ that someone was here. She licked her lips, her heart rate speeding up slightly. She knew that there were people who might be after Barnes, and her imagination ran wild. She hurried closer, hating that her fake foot wasn't as silent as her real foot. She peaked around the corner into the living room and didn't see anything out of the ordinary. Keeping her back to a wall, she shone her cellphone light around the kitchen, then started violently and jumped back as it illuminated a face only a few feet away.

She sucked in a breath to cry out, the light in her hand going wild, but found herself screaming against a hand. It had happened so quickly, so impossibly quickly, how did anyone even _move_ that fast? She struggled, tried to bite the hand that covered her mouth, but quickly discovered that it was impossible. The hand was made of metal. She steadied the light and shone it on her assailant's face, already knowing who it was.

_Barnes_. But he definitely wasn't Barnes. His hair was down, hanging around his face. His eyes were hard, deadly calm, his mouth set, unfeeling. That was what tipped her off, more than anything, strange as it was: his mouth. In the days she had spent around him, she had learned that he was one of those people who, unlike most people who expressed or concealed their emotions with their eyes, Barnes did so with his mouth. Not to say that his eyes weren't expressive; they were, when his walls were down. But even when his walls were up, his eyes blank, she had found that his mouth always betrayed him, that it was almost always sad.

This wasn't the case now. He was perfectly controlled.

He had caught her by surprise, covering her mouth with such force that her lip had snagged her tooth, and she tasted blood. She tried to calm herself down, but he was the Winter Soldier. He wasn't Barnes; Barnes was long gone. She forced herself to be calm, to stop struggling, and swallowed the blood that was pooling in her mouth. Once she was calm, he slowly released her mouth but pressed himself against her, his arm at her throat, holding her firm. He leaned in, his mouth at her ear.

"Who are you?" his breath was hot on her ear. She forced herself not to struggle.

"Let me go," she breathed, straining away from him. "Don't do anything you're going to regret."

At this, he laughed softly, his breath tickling her neck. She swallowed. He applied more pressure to her throat. "Who are you?"

"Moriah," she said, understanding that this was the Winter Soldier, not Barnes, and that the Soldier had no idea who she was. Her mind was spinning; it was the middle of the night. Why had the Winter Soldier emerged in the middle of the night? Steve and Sam said he came out occasionally, but what had triggered him at this hour?

"Ah. You're the one who's going to _help_ me," he said, slowly releasing her. She leaned against the wall, wanting to put as much distance between them as possible. She didn't know this person, didn't know this side to him. She didn't know what to say or how to act; she was terrified of upsetting him and sending him on a killing spree. "I don't need your help," he said, turning away from her and seating himself at the kitchen table, watching her intently. His eyes unnerved her; they were watchful, like a predator's eyes, and they missed nothing. "Have a seat," he said imperiously.

She slowly walked toward him, his eyes always on her. She thought of screaming for help, but thought that would upset him and she didn't particularly want her neck snapped. Her cell phone sat on the table between them, lighting them both up; it made his face look eerie, turned the blue of his eyes flat and nearly silver. She reached for it, intending to send Sam a text alerting him to the situation, but the Soldier snatched it before she could. She swallowed, folding her hands in her lap.

This was dangerous.

"Bucky?" she tried softly, and the effect was immediate. He stiffened.

"Don't call me that," he said darkly. His fists clenched. Her heart sped up. You are alone with the Winter Soldier, her mind kept saying. You are going to die.

"Bucky," she tried again, gently. The Soldier was visibly upset now.

"Be quiet," he growled, and her hands started to shake. The Soldier shook his head briefly, violently, almost like an irritated twitch. She swallowed back frightened tears.

"Calm down," she pleaded. "Bucky, calm down."

"_Don't call me that!"_ his voice rose. She wondered if she had an unconscious death wish; he looked murderous. She prayed that this would work, preferably _before_ he snapped her in half.

"You're scaring me," she said softly; he had stood abruptly and now loomed over her. "Bucky, _please_."

"I said _stop!" _he was shouting now, loud enough to wake the others, unless they were heavy sleepers. She found herself lifted from the chair suddenly and slammed back against the wall. He had her by the throat with his flesh arm, and she clawed desperately at it.

"Bucky, please come out. Please, _please_ don't do this, I know you're in there—"

"_SHUT UP!"_

He was losing it. He tightened his hold on her and she gasped, and suddenly he drew her toward him and caught her face between both of his hands. She thought it was strange, suddenly, how the act of cradling someone's face was usually a tender, intimate gesture, and at the same time could be so violent. His hands were anything but gentle; they shook with barely contained rage, and she felt his muscles tense. He was literally going to _snap her neck_.

"Bucky," she gasped. She was frantic. She placed her hands over his, tried to be gentle, tried to bring him back. _"Bucky, please_, it's me, it's me—"

The Soldier did that head shake again, his face contorting for a moment. He stared at her, his lips drawn back in a snarl, but it was a different kind of snarl, not directed at her. His entire body had gone rigid, like he was fighting something, and then his eyes closed for a moment—she could hear movement upstairs, thank God—and when they opened they weren't the Winter Soldier's eyes.

Barnes was back.

He stared at her for a moment, his body shaking. His eyes went to his hands on her face and he released her suddenly, as though burned, and took a couple of reeling steps back.

"What happened?" he asked, and his voice sounded so lost, so confused. Mo flattened herself against the wall, desperate for distance. The light flicked on and she shielded her eyes, and Sam and Steve were at the foot of the stairs.

* * *

All Sam had to do was take one look at Bucky—he stood, horrified, staring down at his hands, looking panicked—and at Mo—she was flattened to the wall, her eyes trained on Bucky, her mouth stained red—and he had put it together, and he nearly lost it.

"_You—_" he started, lunging for Bucky, who threw his hands up to protect himself and backpedaled so quickly that he knocked into the kitchen table. Steve acted quickly, catching Sam around the middle and pushing him away, stepping protectively in front of Bucky.

"Are you alright?" Steve asked, using his Captain America voice, looking at Mo. She had pressed the back of her hand to her mouth, and she was shaking. She nodded slowly, but her eyes never left Bucky.

"I'm sorry," Bucky was saying. "I'm so sorry. I don't know what happened."

Sam was livid. "Did he hit you?" he demanded, looking at Mo, who shook her head. She withdrew her hand and it was smudged with blood. Without a word, Mo turned away from them and headed back upstairs. Sam swore and went after her; he could hear Steve behind him demanding to know what had happened, could hear Bucky telling him that he needed to see her, he needed to make sure she was okay.

"Stay away from her," Sam said, halfway up the stairs, pointing his finger at Bucky. "I don't give a damn if you're the Winter Soldier or not, I will kick your ass." And then he spun around, hurrying after Mo.

He found her in her room; the bags she had brought from LA were open on the floor and she was throwing things into them. He just stared for a moment, then stepped inside and closed the door. This had been his room before it had been hers, before he had cleared it out. That day suddenly felt like ages ago.

"Mo?" he asked carefully, watching as she opened a drawer in the nightstand and threw her underwear haphazardly across the room toward an open suitcase. Only a couple of them made it in. "Mo, what are you doing?"

She spun around. Her lips were still red, stained like some sort of macabre lipstick. "What does it _look_ like I'm doing, Sam?" she demanded.

"Well, it looks like you're leaving," Sam said slowly, "but I know that's not right."

"Funny," she spit, throwing a pair of shorts at him. "No, I'm leaving, I'm done. I can't do this."

"Mo—"

"You _lied_ to me, Sam!" she shouted, her voice breaking. "You said I was safe! You said he wouldn't hurt me!"

"He's not normally violent," Sam said, trying to calm her down. She was breathing heavily, her eyes wild. She pressed her hands to her forehead. "You're not having a panic attack, are you?" He remembered when he had first met her, and her anxiety had been so bad that he'd witnessed his share of panic attacks.

"No, I'm not," she snapped, her green eyes murderous.

"Moriah," he said slowly, raising his hands, attempting to placate her. "I am _so_ sorry that this happened to you. Please tell me what happened."

"He was going to kill me," she said. "He had me by the throat, then was going to _snap_ my _neck_, Sam." Her voice had gone deadly calm, but her eyes were bright with tears. "I'm out. I'm gone. I'm sorry."

"Mo—" he took a couple of steps forward and reached his hands out to her, grabbing her shoulders. She flinched away, shrinking out of his grasp wildly.

"Do _not_ touch me right now, Sam, do _not_ touch me!"

"Just think about this," Sam said. "You've been doing so well—"

Her voice rose. "I'm not dying for this asshole!" she shouted. "He's not worth my life!"

"You're not going to die—"

"You didn't see his face."

He watched her fling things this way and that. He felt bad for her—he was furious himself, and he wanted to skin Bucky alive. But he was also irritated with her. He knew her well enough. He knew she was running. He knew she was stronger than this.

"You're acting like a hypocrite," he told her lowly, and this got her attention. She froze and raised her green eyes to look at him.

"Excuse me?" she asked, her voice deadly. She took a few steps closer.

"You're acting like a hypocrite," he repeated boldly.

"I am _not_ a hypocrite."

"I seem to remember that _you_ were in a pretty low place once," he started, but she cut him off.

"_I_ never threatened to kill anyone!"

At this he tilted his head back and laughed a little. "You had a flashback and _pointed a gun at me!"_

"_It wasn't even loaded!_" she shouted back.

"I didn't know that! And did I give up on you? No, I didn't—"

"Don't make this about us," she hissed. "This situation isn't even _remotely_ comparable and you know it."

"No? What's the difference?"

"The difference?!" she demanded, throwing her hands up. In the shouting, she had opened up the cut on her lip and she was bleeding again; her teeth were bright red with flesh blood. "The _difference_, Sam, is that _he's killed people!_"

"There isn't a single person in this house who hasn't killed someone," Sam pointed out.

"You know what I mean," she growled.

"Please, go on," he said. "_Please_. Because I'm still a little confused as to how this situation is different from yours."

She placed her hands on her hips, then raised one hand and started ticking off fingers. "Well, for starters, he's _brainwashed_. Probably damaged beyond fixing."

"You and I both know you don't mean that. No one is beyond fixing." He kept his voice calm. "I know you had a scare tonight. And I'm going to do what I can to make sure this never happens again. Steve and I both. But you can't give up on him, Moriah, I know you, and I know you'll hate yourself. Think this through. You know he needs help."

"Why are you suddenly his champion?" she demanded. "_Why are you taking his side?_"

"I'm on your side!"

"It doesn't seem like it!"

"Mo, just imagine if I had given up on you. Imagine if you had given up on me."

For just a moment she didn't say anything; she just glared. Then: "This is different. You _know_ it is."

"How is it different?" he asked again.

"Sam," she said slowly, deliberately. Loudly. "He. Is. A. _Trained. Killer._"

Sam just held her gaze for a long, long time, until she finally looked away. He saw her bite her lip and close her eyes briefly as her own words sank in. He drove them home.

"And you're not?" he asked softly, watching her. The fight suddenly left her; the tension evaporated from her body, and she just looked very, very tired. "I'm not?"

"It's diff—"

"You're right," Sam interrupted, taking a seat on the bed. He patted the spot next to him and she sat almost petulantly, like an upset child. "It is different. You want to know how?"

She shook her head. "I know what you're going to say."

"Then let me say it," Sam said. "The difference is this: the dude was held captive by Soviets for years. He was tortured. He was brainwashed. He had his mind wiped. He was programmed. I've fought him myself, and it's like fighting a machine. The humanity was gone. He was just a tool. Just a weapon. Us?" He looked into her eyes as she sat beside him, saw that hers were brimming over with tears.

"Don't say it," she whispered. But he said it.

"We were in control," he said, and she closed her eyes. "As much as we don't want to think about it. When we killed people, we were in control of our actions."

This seemed to break her. She put her head in her hands, curling up into herself. "I can't do this, Sam," she said. "I'm sorry, but I realized that tonight. He needs more help than what I can offer."

"You're scared."

"_I am terrified! _Terrified, Sam! I haven't been this scared in—in a long time."

Sam put a hand on top of her head and drew her close, and she struggled at first, resisting, saying "I'm fine, I'm fine," but she finally gave in, her head falling against his shoulder as he wrapped his arms around her, resting his chin on top of her head. He kissed her hair.

"You're okay, right?" he asked her. "As far as…"

"As my mental health?" she asked with a little laugh. "I'm fine. No flashbacks, no panic attacks. I'm fine."

"Just scared," he said, rubbing her shoulders.

"Yeah," she said.

He pushed her away slightly and tilted her chin up with his hand, looking at her mouth. "He didn't hit you?"

"No," she shook her head, licking her lip. "He covered my mouth with his hand, pinched the skin or something."

Sam nodded, drawing her into him again, and this time she sighed and thumped her head on his shoulder. He looked around the room, at the underwear on the floor.

"Nice," he said, raising an eyebrow, and she pulled out of his embrace and looked at him. "I like the red ones," he said with a wink, and she rolled her eyes at him and shoved his shoulder. He laughed a little, then sobered and they looked at each other.

"I'm not going to tell you what to do," he said, patting her knee. "If you want to leave, then leave. I won't stop you, and none of us will blame you. Hell, I'm halfway out of here myself. But I also want you to know that I believe in you. And I think that if anyone is strong enough to do this, it's you. Alright?"

With that he stood, maintaining eye contact for just a moment before he left, stepping around the clothes on the floor.

"Where are you going?"

"To kick some ass," he said over his shoulder, closing the door behind him.

* * *

"I have to see her," Bucky pleaded, straining against Steve. "I had to make sure I didn't hurt her."

"Leave her alone, Bucky," Steve said, forcing him to sit in a chair. Bucky continued to struggle, trying to get around the super-soldier, but trying to move Steve was like trying to move a mountain.

"I have to make sure," Bucky pleaded, looking into Steve's face. "I have to—"

"You're not going anywhere," Steve said, gripping Bucky's chin in his hand. The grip was firm, but not painful. "Look at me, Buck," Steve commanded, and Bucky looked into Steve's familiar blue eyes. For once, he found them comforting.

"I have to…" Bucky said weakly, trying to push Steve away, but the fight had all but left him. "What have I done?"

"She's fine," Steve assured him. "Rattled up, but she'll be okay." Bucky put his head in his hands. Guilt threatened to overwhelm him. "What happened tonight, Bucky?"

"I don't know," Bucky said, looking helplessly up at Steve.

"Think," Steve insisted, and it was a harsher tone than what Steve normally used with him.

"I just—I blacked out," Bucky said. "I blacked out again."

"When?"

"I don't know. I just remember going to sleep and then—and then I wake up and my hands are—"

There was shouting from upstairs. He swallowed convulsively and he and Steve both fell silent to listen.

"_I'm not dying for this asshole!" _That was Fox's voice._ "He's not worth my life!"_

Bucky put his head down. He didn't want to hear this, but part of him latched onto it, used it to fuel his already guilty conscience. He deserved this. The shouting continued, and neither Steve nor Bucky spoke. He heard Sam shout about having a gun pointed at him, heard Fox shout about the situation being different in that Bucky was a trained killer. She was right. And he was good at it; she'd almost gotten to experience it first hand.

He was disgusted with himself. He was terrified of himself.

"…_he's brainwashed. Probably damaged beyond fixing."_

Bucky felt Steve's eyes on him. He glared at the floor, trying not to let her words get to him, but it was unavoidable. They wormed their way into his mind, seeped in like poison, and he couldn't get them out. _Damaged beyond fixing_. Everyone in this goddamned house knew she was right.

Sam must have said something in his defense—he was grateful—because Fox demanded to know why he was taking Bucky's side. More fighting ensued before he heard Fox say _"He. Is. A. Trained. Killer."_ very slowly, loudly, deliberately, before it got very, very quiet upstairs. Bucky licked his lips and gazed down at his metal hand; it was smudged with her blood. He clutched it in a fist, his hatred for the thing threatening to boil over. He turned away from the stairs, resting his elbows on the table and his head in his hands. He ran his hands repeatedly through his hair, shaking his head.

"I didn't mean to," Bucky said, tugging at his hair. "They have to understand. I don't know what happened, I just—I would never—" This is what he had been afraid of. Steve pulled up a chair and gave his shoulder a squeeze, but didn't say anything, which was fine. There was nothing he could say; Bucky understood that.

The sound of someone coming down stairs caught both of their attentions, and Bucky looked up, his heart stuttering with fear and with hope. It was Sam. Bucky stood, nearly knocking the chair over in his haste.

"Is she—"

"You," Sam said, pointing a finger at him. "Shut up. You don't get to talk, not right now."

Bucky held his tongue.

"Is she hurt?" Steve asked.

"Bloody lip," Sam said. "But that's it. Just scared."

No one mentioned the shouting. Sam ran his hands over his head, clearly agitated, before he finally spoke again: "She's leaving," he said.

"What?" Bucky asked.

"Hey," Sam said, taking a threatening step closer. "What did I say?"

Steve placed himself between them, placing a hand on Sam's chest, holding him back. "She's leaving?" Steve repeated, bringing the other man back on track.

"Yeah," Sam said, his eyes trained on Bucky with uncomfortable intensity. Bucky couldn't hold his gaze. He looked away, feeling as though he was shrinking beneath the furious glare. He was pathetic. He was worse than pathetic. "She doesn't want to do this anymore."

Steve nodded. "That's understandable," he said, and his voice was only slightly disappointed. He took a step toward the stairs and Bucky was alarmed. He didn't want to be alone with Sam. Thankfully, Sam blocked Steve's path.

"Leave her alone," Sam said. "She'll kill me. She definitely doesn't want to see anyone right now."

"There's no chance she'll stay?" Steve asked. Sam shrugged.

"I dunno. This is Mo; she's surprised me before, but you didn't see her face, man. She was upset."

Bucky closed his eyes.

"When is she leaving?" Steve again.

"By the looks of it? Tomorrow. Her bags are packed."

* * *

"Well, look at this. Rise and shine, boys."

Bucky started awake, his eyes snapping open. For a moment he was groggy, puzzled. His neck ached. He looked around. Sunlight streamed in through the windows, and it took him a moment to realize he was in the kitchen. He'd fallen asleep hunched over the table—well, he hadn't been exactly _sleeping_. Dozing was a more proper term. His mind had been too busy for sleep. Sam snorted somewhere to his left; he had fallen asleep leaning against the wall, but now he was blinking his eyes like an owl. Steve, asleep in the chair to his right, had also started awake. Bucky looked at the clock on the microwave. It was 7:04 in the morning.

Fox was standing in front of them, leaning against the kitchen sink, arms crossed. Her honey-brown hair was knotted high on top of her head, exposing her face, neck, and shoulders, making her look vulnerable; it showed off her neck and her jaw, as well as the scars there. She wasn't hiding any of it today.

"Mo?" Sam's voice was sleepy, but alert. He stood. Bucky stared at her, feeling guilty just at the sight of her; there was a small red cut on her lip, but aside from that there was no visible damage. As if she could sense him looking, she licked the cut, the motion slow, almost thoughtful. Bucky looked away.

"Mornin'," she said. She pushed away from the counter and swung her arms out in a stretch, taking a deep breath.

"Thought you'd be gone by now," Sam said slowly, clearly testing the waters.

"Yeah, well, here I am," she said.

"When does your plane leave?"

She glared at Sam. "Shut up," she said, and at this Sam laughed, approaching her and wrapping her in a hug.

"I knew you'd stay," he said, lifting her briefly off the ground before setting her back down.

"You're staying?" Steve asked, standing and heading toward her.

"Yep," she said with a sigh.

"You don't have to," Steve said. "After last night—"

"After last night," she said, "I realized I _have_ to stay." She shrugged, biting her bottom lip. "Can't just leave after something like that, you know? I mean, clearly, he's drowning." She made eye contact with Bucky, her eyes challenging him to look away, and this time he refused to look away. "And I can't just walk away. I've been in his place." Not exactly, Bucky thought, but appreciated the sentiment.

Steve gave her a little smile. "Thank you," he said. She nodded, but her gaze was still focused on Bucky, and he was starting to get uncomfortable. She stepped forward, approached the table, and leaned her hands on it so that she was standing above him, but leaning down.

"You," she said, "have a hell of a lot of work to do."

"I know," Bucky said.

"That means no more locking yourself up," she said firmly. "That means working through this. Starting today." He nodded. "I'm serious. It's going to get ugly and it's going to get painful, but what happened last night _will not_ happen again. Understand?"

"Yes, ma'am," he said. He felt a strange combination of sickness and hopefulness.

"Good," she said, then turned her back on him. Maybe she did it to prove she wasn't afraid of him; with her back to him, she was completely vulnerable. Or maybe he was overthinking it. But, with her hair tied up the way it was, he noticed something strange on the back of her neck. Upon closer inspection, he saw that it was writing. A series of numbers, more specifically, lines of them, with roman numerals at the very bottom. As though she could sense him staring, she lifted her hand and rubbed it absently over the numbers.

"Also," she said, turning back around, a small smile on her face. "I would like to issue a formal and public apology to Sam for shouting at him last night." Bucky saw her look at Sam and Bucky and Steve looked as well and saw that Sam was grinning. "I'm sorry. I'm awful."

"The worst," Sam agreed, elbowing her. Bucky looked away from them and down at his hands again, noting that there was still some of her blood on his left, the metal one. It had never been much to behind with, but the sight of blood on his hands was something he had hoped he would never have to see again. And then last night had happened, and it felt like such a massive setback, and he felt like such scum—

"Wait," Bucky said suddenly, looking up from his hands to look at Moriah. All eyes were suddenly on him. "I wanted to—to apologize," he said. "I know there's nothing I can say that will fix it, and I'm not going to make excuses for myself, but for what it's worth, I _am_ sorry."

She held his gaze for a moment and swallowed; he saw the motion in her throat. After a few tense moments, she nodded.

"I have a theory," she said, raising one finger, and it was back to business. But he wasn't blind; he noticed the way she moved around him now, different form before; she was tenser, warier, and every time he moved it elicited the slightest reaction from her. She seemed to be constantly mirroring him; a movement from him meant a movement from her, always defensive, always watchful. He couldn't let himself feel upset by that. He had no right to be. And she was subtle about it, too; no one else seemed to notice, but thanks to his training, he did.

"I think what happened last night—how you slipped into Winter Soldier mode—" the name _Winter Soldier_ stirred memories in his mind, and they threatened to surface, but they didn't. He didn't want them to. He knew of the name, vaguely, and it wasn't a surprise to hear her use it, but connecting that name to himself was the difficult part. "Was a defense mechanism. So I don't think it's another personality entirely, like we thought, but rather a part of Barnes that he's suppressed and that resurfaces from time to time," she said.

"But I think it might work the same way. With DID—dissociative identity disorder," she clarified, "the other personality or personalities have been created to cope with a trauma. So, Barnes, you didn't create the Winter Soldier yourself. He's not a creation, not like someone with DID has created personalities. The Winter Soldier _is_ _you_. But, in order for your brain to handle the trauma, it's shut all of that out—that's called suppression—and you've got some post-traumatic amnesia going on—tell me if any of this sounds right."

Bucky blinked. "I guess."

"So, how another personality might surface when the host personality needs it, I think the Winter Soldier is triggered in somewhat the same way, but it's _you_, still—you go back to that place, you become that person again to protect yourself, because something triggered you and tricked your mind into believing you need that defense. It's just that you've buried that side of yourself—and the Winter Soldier _is_ a part of you, and you're going to have to accept that."

Bucky ignored the part about accepting the Winter Soldier. "But I went to sleep last night. That's all I remember."

"I'd guess you had a nightmare," she said, as thought it was the simplest thing in the world, as though he should have known this. "You probably had a nightmare, got freaked out, and the Winter Soldier was triggered. So everything your brain hid away to protect you suddenly came _back_ because you were fooled into believing you needed that part of your self to survive. The Winter Soldier _is_ your ultimate survival mode. Make sense? I mean, it's just a theory, but…"

"Damn, girl," Sam said, looking impressed. "You _are_ a nerd."

"It makes sense," Steve said, nodding slowly. "So what do we do?"

Moriah looked at Bucky, and he held her gaze. "We have to dig it all up."

* * *

**AN: Mo's tattoo will be explained all in due time. We got some hints as to Sam and Mo's history as well as we got to see Mo completely freak out, but she pulled it together. From here on out, it's all about getting better. Can't wait to write in those fun, fluffy chapters as well, because we need those, right? I hope you guys enjoyed this. And remember to review! The little box is like Right There :)**


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